SOS
by hrhrionastar
Summary: You want to WHAT?" "Poison the Dark Lord." What would it be like to be a 'normal' person living through the second war? Follow Leo Lestrange and Elle McKinnon on an adventure of epic proportions! Canon-compliant, unusual OCs, alternate point of view.
1. The Strange Lestranges

**The Strange Lestranges**

Once upon a time, there was a girl. She had been poor her whole life; but at the beginning of her seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she knew she had two amazing things to be thankful for: 1, she was a witch. And 2, she had a boyfriend.

He wasn't just any boyfriend—he was handsome, brave, smart, kind, and loyal. They'd been going out for almost two years. He was older than she, and he came from a wealthy family. Leea Sharpe wasn't interested in self-deception (except when absolutely necessary) and there was no denying his wealth made him more attractive. But she felt instinctively that she would love him no matter what.

So, when he proposed to her the night before she left for her final year of school, she didn't hesitate. "Oh yes, Rabastan!" she cried happily, and he swung her into his arms, lifting her off the floor. Rabastan suggested an elopement; she thought it would be romantic (and knew it was practical, since his parents had arranged his marriage to a respectable pureblood girl of wealthy family when he was a child of three), and she agreed.

Her seventeenth birthday was in September. The elopement went off without a hitch, they honeymooned in the south of France, and for three glorious weeks she was the happiest girl on earth.

Then they returned to England.

Rabastan introduced his family to Leea in his customary casual, rather self-involved style. Something along the lines of, "Mother, Father, this is Leea, my wife," after which he felt he'd discharged that duty.

Leea was perfectly aware that the only reason Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange were willing to tolerate their son's marriage to a virtual nobody was the fact that her Wizarding ancestry stretched back at least as far as theirs. Also, she was pregnant. Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange seemed rather heir-conscious. Salazar help her, Leea reflected, if the child she was carrying was a daughter.

It hadn't taken Leea long to learn that the person whose opinion Rabastan valued most in the world was his elder brother. She had never met him as such, but she still remembered passing him in a Hogwarts corridor and feeling a thrill of terror when she was a first year. She wasn't even certain he hadn't graduated at that point, but one thing she was sure of: Rodolphus Lestrange had no idea she existed.

Until, that rainy night she and Rabastan returned to his ancestral home, and she walked into the parlor and found him, scribbling away on an incredibly long piece of parchment and sitting by the fire, that was. He looked up.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said belatedly. She would have retreated to the dining table (where Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange were grilling their younger son on every detail of the past month—well, perhaps not _every_ detail), but he gestured that she should sit down.

"So you're the little bird my brother married," he said conversationally. Warily, she nodded. "How old are you?"

_Twenty questions? Why doesn't he just read my mind?_ thought Leea wryly. "Seventeen," she said aloud.

"Maiden name?" he inquired.

"Sharpe."

"Family?" This was said with a penetrating glance. _He wants to make sure I don't lie_, thought Leea. _Well, why should I?_

"My father was Sylvester Sharpe; my mother, Abigail Montague. They both died a few years ago. I have no siblings." It was the truth, but it wasn't the whole story. She didn't mention her parents' bitter fights about money, coming to a head when her mother threatened to leave—go back to her own noble family. It was then that her father suffered his first attack. The local Healer had predicted it for some time, but it was still a shock. He never fully recovered, and Abigail Montague Sharpe wasted away after he was gone. After that, Leea spent her holidays at school, and summers at the Healer's. There hadn't been enough money to send her to school, but Professor Dumbledore had generously let her in on scholarship. The Healer was a friend to her, but she doubted either he or his wife would approve a marriage made before she finished her education.

Rodolphus Lestrange looked at her searchingly. "It sounds…acceptable," he said rather grudgingly. Leea noted with some interest that her husband's brother's obsession with bloodlines seemed to be even greater than that of his parents; this opinion was reinforced by what he said next.

"Will you submit to a Blood Test?" the question was abrupt, designed to give offense. Yet she couldn't protest; no true pureblood would.

"Of course."

He summoned a house-elf and sent it to fetch the required materials. "Will you object if I send for my wife as well?" he asked. "I understand most women prefer to undergo the test in the presence of another woman."

"I would be charmed to renew my acquaintance with your wife," said Leea, refusing to succumb to a desire not to seem weak. If she disagreed, he would take it as encouragement—think she wanted to be alone with him.

Bellatrix Black Lestrange entered the room in a whirlwind. "Rodolphus, darling," she cooed. "What's this? I hear you're planning a Blood Test."

"Care to do the honors?" he asked her, indicating the knife and mirror she held. It seemed the house-elf had had the good sense to allow Bellatrix to complete its errand.

"Certainly," Bellatrix said easily. Only then did she glance at Leea. "Why, I know you!" she exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes, we spoke at the seventh year formal two years ago," replied Leea cordially. "You complimented my dress."

"Of course!" said Bellatrix brightly. She gave little appearance of remembering the occasion, but it was clear she meant to make a pet of Leea. Her keen eyes had swiftly noted the way Leea's petite prettiness made her own bold beauty stand out. She muttered a spell at the knife, and then held out a hand for Leea's. In one swift motion, she cut a deep gash in Leea's index finger, and tilted her hand so a few drops of blood fell on the surface of the mirror, muttering another incantation.

Leea drew her wand and tapped her wound, glad not to have swooned or cried out at the pain. She noted with interest and some trepidation, that neither Bellatrix nor Rodolphus was at all concerned with her hurts.

Bellatrix, having set down the bloody knife, was tilting the mirror in order to better see the results of the Blood Test. Rodolphus peered avidly over her shoulder. What a matched pair, Leea thought in annoyance.

"Well, she's pureblood," began Bellatrix complacently. "And—Salazar Slytherin's locket!" she suddenly shrieked, staring at Leea. "You're going to have a baby!"

"I know," said Leea, smiling in spite of herself.

"It's a boy," Rodolphus commented, still studying the blood-drenched mirror.

"It is?" gasped Leea. It was impossible to feign indifference upon this question.

"Of course it is!" exclaimed Bellatrix. She looked pleased, but her eyes were a little too bright. "This is brilliant!"

"I know," said Leea again, grinning (she knew) like a fool. "Excuse me," she added, her one thought to share this crucial information with Rabastan. He would so be thrilled!

"Are we what you expected?" Bellatrix asked several days later, curled in an armchair and watching Leea peacefully embroidering.

"Well," smiled Leea, considering the question. "I admit I thought we might gossip over fashions together."

"If that's what you're interested in, you really should meet my sister," commented Bellatrix.

"I would be delighted to meet Mrs. Malfoy," said Leea, her composure unshaken. Bellatrix nodded, and Leea knew she'd passed another test. Probably Bellatrix had wondered if she would mention Andromeda Black—or Andromeda Tonks, now. That would have been a surefire way to destroy her fledgling friendship with Bellatrix. As it was, mention of controversial subjects like Muggles, politics, war, Unforgiveable Curses, the Ministry of Magic, or the well-known Dark Lord would trigger an instant reaction from her.

Thus, Leea was never afraid of Bellatrix, despite the power, strength and beauty she was so eager to flaunt. She wore her heart on her sleeve, as careless as any Gryffindor. Rodolphus was far more troubling. Leea played with the idea that Rodolphus had that rare ability to convince anyone of anything, simply by listening to them and guiding their thoughts in what direction he willed with well-chosen words. The influence he had over Rabastan worried her.

Leea was not ignorant of her husband's political affiliations, but usually she ignored them. There was clearly nothing she could do to rescue him from the ranks of the Dark Lord's followers, and she was not convinced it would be a good idea if she could. After all, things were changing—war was in the air. And her school experiences had taught her that only a Slytherin would stand behind a Slytherin when the need was urgent. Professor Dumbledore, the Headmaster, claimed to be above favoritism—but Leea knew nothing could be more ridiculous. Only consider the Incident with Severus Snape and Sirius Black! Not the regular run-of-the-mill incidents; those had occurred daily, much to the sorrow of Severus's sympathetic Slytherins (though sympathy rarely incited them to assistance—Snape had been unpopular). Still, the Incident in fourth year had been highly representative. Leea had heard that Black had told Snape some ridiculous story about the Whomping Willow, and when Snape took the bait, he and that blood traitor friend of his, James Potter, had viciously attacked Severus. But, as you might expect, Dumbledore had hushed the whole thing up and Gryffindor hadn't even lost any points over it. In short, Dumbledore's do-gooders would never understand. Pureblood politics required the most delicate touch to navigate successfully.

Leea and Narcissa Malfoy got along immediately. Narcissa was jealous of Leea's interesting condition, and once she'd explained how much she wanted a child, their friendship was cemented.

Lucius Malfoy would have liked to have superciliously looked over the wife of his friend's younger brother, but his wife (not to mention his sister-in-law) effectively prevented this. Leea's acceptance was assured.

Still, she was glad she was enough of a little mouse not to attract the notice of the Dark Lord. Some things were better undertaken only by absolute fanatics like Bellatrix, or extremely reckless Gryffindors, like Albus Dumbledore or Sirius Black.

When her son was born, Leea was overjoyed. He was adorable! He had her eyes and Rabastan's patrician cast of countenance. His hair was dark. She knew immediately he would grow up to be a breaker of hearts. They named him Leopold (much to the dismay of his grandparents. They thought his name should begin with R, but the only boy's name beginning with R that Leea liked at all was Rigel, and Bellatrix had called that one. Bellatrix and Rodolphus didn't have any children, but it wasn't for lack of trying).

"Hello, Leopold," cooed Narcissa. "You know, darling, Leopold is a bit of a mouthful. Have you thought of a nickname?"

"So you don't think the Lestranges are too good for nicknames?" asked Leea.

"Oh, no, you mean because of Rodolphus and Rabastan? Rodolphus is so serious—he defies nicknames. And Rabastan is simply a name that doesn't lend itself to shortening. How about Leo? Like the constellation."

"Good idea. Leo. I like it," said Leea, smiling at the similarity between this and her own name. It was perfect! This way, it would be clear Leo Lestrange was her son as well as a scion of the noble family Lestrange.

Carefully, Leea continued to ignore that secret society her husband belonged to, the infamous Death Eaters, as long as she could. But then, when Leo was three, there came that fateful night at the beginning of November when Rodolphus and Bellatrix and the terrifyingly sadistic (though quite young) Barty Crouch Jr. came to their doorstep.

"The Dark Lord has disappeared," announced Bellatrix in the way someone else would have heralded the Apocalypse.

"I know," sighed Rabastan. Leea knew the Mark on his arm had faded on All Hallow's Eve. She wondered what this would mean, and came to the conclusion that it could be nothing good.

With a sigh, she rose to take Leo up to bed.

"Daddy!" said that young gentleman emphatically.

Rabastan swung Leo into his arms. "You're a good boy, Leo," he said gruffly. "Sleep well, and mind your mother."

"Goodnight, Daddy," replied Leo affectionately. Rabastan handed him to Leea, who took him upstairs. They didn't retreat fast enough for Bellatrix, who complained,

"You spoil that child, Rabastan."

When Leea came downstairs again, the four of them had come up with a plan; she could tell. Bellatrix blew her a half-sarcastic, half-genuine kiss, and headed outside, coolly sinister Rodolphus and sinisterly sadistic Barty in tow.

She put her arms around Rabastan. "Must you go?" she asked, eyes wide with fear.

"You know I must," he said gently.

With a conscious effort, Leea relaxed, his warm masculine scent comforting her. She peered up at him through her eyelashes, and then kissed him fiercely. When at last they pulled apart, she said huskily, "Hurry back."

Rabastan grinned appreciatively. "Love you, Leea," he called casually, bounding out of the house to rejoin his impatiently loitering friends. Well, Barty was impatiently loitering. Bellatrix and Rodolphus seemed to be preoccupied with one another.

She didn't see him again until the trial. Or what passed for a trial in these degenerate days. Barty Crouch Sr. glared down at his son (weeping gustily—either out of paralyzing terror or excellent tactics—or both). Bellatrix was haughty, Rodolphus cool and bored, and Rabastan nervous, but concealing it well. The travesty of the trial upset Leea, not because she thought them innocent—she was as sure as anyone who was not an eyewitness could ever be that they were guilty—but because it further eroded her faith in authority, or the law. At least the Dark Lord was upfront about his desire for world domination. To Leea, Mr. Crouch Sr. seemed the ultimate hypocrite—there was absolutely no possible way he was not also interested in world domination. His methods of getting there were different, but still ruthless.

As the Dementors escorted the four Death Eaters past Leea's place in the shadows, her eyes met Rabastan's. She knew they were filled with sorrow, but she couldn't help it. _I love you_, she thought, staring into his eyes and willing him to understand.

_I love you, Leea_, he thought back. _Tell Leo I love him too._

Then they were gone.

That night Leea packed her and her son's things and demanded (or begged, depending on one's perspective) the support and influence of her in-laws. They exerted what power they had to protect her from annoyance, but she was under no illusions: they were only doing it for Leo.

That was all right, though: from then on, Leea swore to herself, everything she did would be for her son. Leo was all she had; Leo was everything.


	2. The Marvelous McKinnons

**The Marvelous McKinnons**

Once upon a time, there was a girl. She was in danger—voices screamed, darkness seemed to extend all around everything—the girl heard a low, cruel laugh and felt pinpricks of pain like needles—a glimpse of an ornate tea set in flickering wand light—sound echoed around her, men in masks—a flash of green light—

Marlene McKinnon sat up in bed, jerked wide-awake, eyes dark and fearful in her pale face. She muttered something and a lamp burst into light beside her bed. Shivering as the worst of the dream left her, she got up to make herself some hot chocolate. She tiptoed through the house—she was staying with her family for a few days, and she didn't want to wake her parents or her siblings—going over the dream as analytically as possible. It was her habit to pick apart her dreams for meaning—a hobby she'd begun for fun at Hogwarts.

She didn't need light to guide her steps to the kitchen. Thinking, thinking… Who was the girl? That didn't take much ingenuity. She hadn't needed the feel of heavy, long dark hair and a lithe body to recognize herself. Did the dream represent the way she felt? The war wasn't going well. Just last week the Order of the Phoenix had posed for a group photograph, but at least half the smiles were fake. She had felt the tension coming from the group in waves.

Marlene hoped Caradoc hadn't been too worried. She hated the lines around his mouth that would become permanent if he wasn't careful. He was so beautiful; it didn't seem right that he should already have so many worry lines. Still, they were planning to go out the next day—a strictly no fights-to-the-death or secret-reconnaissance-missions, two normal people (well, as normal as a witch and a wizard belonging to the Voldemort-resistance movement could be) on a date. Marlene grinned in anticipation at the thought. Caradoc was her first real, serious boyfriend. Sure, she'd flirt with Sirius Black any day of the week, and Gideon Prewett had been writing poetry to her eyelashes for years, but Caradoc was special. He cared about her a lot, too. She could tell. His eyes lit up whenever he saw her, and he always became incredibly tongue-tied when they talked in public. Marlene liked having someone special.

By the excellent expedient of thinking about Caradoc, Marlene had cheered herself up so much that she was actually humming under her breath by the time she got to the kitchen. To her surprise, a light was on.

Cautiously, she moved closer. This probably wasn't an attack, but it pays to be careful. She edged the door open with her foot, and beheld a tall, dark-haired man sitting at the table, scowling into a mug.

"Richmond!" Marlene exclaimed in surprise. "What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Just got in," said Richmond gloomily. "It figures everyone's asleep."

"I'll say," grinned Marlene, dancing over to the stove and waving her wand at a small pot. It filled itself with water and settled on the stove to boil. "I mean, it is three in the morning. Where were you?"

"Mission," said Richmond laconically.

"For the Order?" asked Marlene sharply.

"Yeah," sighed Richmond, scowling at his little sister. Marlene turned her back on him, rummaging through the cupboards for the hot chocolate mix. "Don't tell Nila, though. Can't imagine what she thinks I can do."

"She thinks you could make a stand against the forces of evil just as easily by following the Ministry's orders instead of Dumbledore's," explained Marlene casually. "She reckons I could, too, except_ I _don't have Auror credentials."

"It's not a question of the Ministry _or _Dumbledore, you know. Godric knows it's better to find their points of agreement and go with those, instead of constantly pointing out where the Order's less than legal, or the Ministry's less than wise. And don't you think you shouldn't be involved, anyway? You're only eighteen, for Godric's sake, Marlene!"

"No, I don't think I shouldn't be involved, big brother," answered Marlene, abandoning her search in order to quarrel with Richmond. "We're doing good work, and it's not like I'd be any safer out of it. You're not the only one who knows how to fight the forces of evil, Rich."

"I don't agree," said Richmond stubbornly. "You _would _be safer out of it. This war is no place for a girl."

"Oh, sexism!" cried Marlene, eager for battle. Before either sibling could continue the quarrel, however, there was an ominous hissing noise from the pot on the stove.

Marlene dealt with the boiling water, while Richmond got up, stretched lazily, and moved toward the cupboards.

"Is this what you were looking for?" he asked, opening a shallow cupboard in which reposed a few jars, one of which was labeled Hot Chocolate Mix, and a rather ornate tea set (a gift from Marlene's grandparents).

Marlene turned, holding the lid of the pot in one hand and her wand in the other. "Thanks, Rich," she started, but then her face went white, she dropped the pot lid and her wand, and collapsed toward the floor. Marlene McKinnon had fainted.

After all, it's not every day a girl realizes she's just Seen her own death.

Marlene always denied that she was a Seer, but she'd known for a long time—forever, she sometimes thought. Usually her visions came to her in dreams, but sometimes she would look at something and know things she couldn't possibly have known, or meet someone for the first time and know all their deepest, darkest secrets. Adults claimed it was a Gift; Marlene thought of it as a curse. Did she want to know what scores her friends would get on their O.W.L.s? Did she enjoy watching the first years get Sorted and knowing where they'd end up before the Hat did? And what about her more sinister dreams? Her whole life, she'd had the dreams. Sometimes they didn't come true, but she could usually tell when it was just something her brain had thought up and not some sort of message from—whom? Higher powers? The universe? She had no idea. Sometimes her prophetic dreams were vague and blurry, like the one with the baby and the motorbike; others, they were crystal-sharp and real as if she were living them, like the one the night after N.E.W.T.s when she'd Seen Professor Dumbledore toasting her, Lily, Alice, and the other newest members of the Order of the Phoenix. She'd known it would happen in just a few weeks, at a place she'd never been but could have made her way around blindfolded.

She knew now; the dream was real. It was _her_. And it was soon.

When she came to, she made Richmond some excuse—exhaustion, poor little girl—and went back to bed. She needed to think. Of course, being in the Order of the Phoenix, she had known it might come to this. Nevertheless, panic raced through her. What could she do? Why now?

It didn't take her long to see there was nothing she could do: not yet, anyway. Not all her visions came true—sometimes events transpired differently, by pure chance, or some last-minute decision. But she also knew that if she tried to avoid the vision, she would only increase its probability. The tea set had made her realize—that meant it would be here, or at least the tea set would be. Should she go? Leave England? Reluctantly, she abandoned that plan. It wouldn't work, anyway: the vision—and likely the tea set—would follow her. No, she would have to stay, keeping watch, constantly alert—her experience with Divination had taught her that if she changed things at exactly the right moment, the vision could still not come true. Still, hope seemed incongruous in the face of the vision, and the fact that here she was, an eighteen-year-old trying to defeat the greatest Dark wizard of all time.

Fear held Marlene in its grip; she didn't sleep anymore that night.

The next day, she kept her appointment with Caradoc. She chattered cheerfully for as long as she could, but he knew something was wrong.

"Marlene? Sweetheart, what is it? What's wrong?" he asked, his fear for her plain on his face.

For one dizzying moment, Marlene thought about telling him. It would be so nice, having someone else worry. It would lift some of the weight from her shoulders. But she couldn't bring herself to spoil whatever little time they had left. "It's nothing," she said, and as Caradoc opened his mouth to protest, she effectively silenced him with a kiss.

The rest of that week passed in a confusing blur for Marlene. She spent as much time as possible with Caradoc, and when she wasn't with him, she was cataloguing every dream, vision, or stray bit of impossible knowledge she could remember entering her mind, and writing her will (something, she reflected wryly, that really ought to be required for admittance to the Order of the Phoenix).

One week after she'd had the Vision (as she called it to herself) she was done. She took everything to Gringotts, safely deposited in the McKinnon family vault.

It was when she returned that Taliesin, her little brother, stopped her in the hall with a worried frown. Taliesin was eleven years old, headed to Hogwarts in the fall. He was an adorable child, but just now he looked remarkably serious.

"Marlene? Are you in trouble?" he asked her. Richmond and Nila's ten-month-old daughter, Elvendork, pulled impatiently on Taliesin's hand. As the next youngest family member, Taliesin was quite her favorite playmate. Marlene still thought it had been cruel and unusual punishment to name the poor girl Elvendork. All because of James Potter and Sirius Black, she had little doubt. Those two had a lot to answer for. Marlene called her niece Ellie, a name she considered far more suited to the little girl's dark-haired elegance. Ellie was a happy child—always laughing. Marlene would miss her…

Marlene blinked, then answered Taliesin's question with another. "Wrong? What would be wrong?"

"Well," asserted Taliesin, "when you came in you looked like you'd seen a Boggart. Besides, you've been acting strange all week. It's not anything to do with Dearborn, is it? Because you're my sister and I know how to protect you." He looked quite fierce, and Marlene felt tears prickling at her eyelids at his impassioned defense.

"No, Taliesin," she said softly, determining on the spot to tell him at least part of the truth. "It's nothing to do with Caradoc. It's just something…I have to work out on my own, okay? I love you, little brother." She bent and kissed his cheek, then swept into the kitchen before he could further wear down her resolve to tell her family nothing. If the Vision were true (and she felt in her bones that it was) they would find out soon enough. And if it wasn't, why worry them needlessly?

That night everyone was home, for once, so Marlene, her mother, her two sisters, Eavan and Shanahara, and her sister-in-law, Nila, decided to make a bit of a celebration out of it. They all cooked dinner, and Marlene almost wept from the joy of all of them together, the way it should be (in spite of some pretty spirited quarreling between Nila, a mature woman of twenty-two, and Shanahara, a _young _woman of fifteen, on the subject of age and experience).

It was after dinner, and the whole family was there in the kitchen—Marlene, her parents, her two brothers, her two sisters, her sister-in-law and her niece—and for once, Marlene wasn't even thinking about the Vision. Then there was a knock on the door.

Richmond went to answer it, and Nila followed more sedately. In the kitchen, the family heard the door open, then a dull thud and a blood-curdling scream. Marlene leaped to her feet, thinking, _I didn't know Death Eaters knocked when paying house calls_, and running toward the door.

It was worse than she could ever have imagined. Marlene had Seen her own death, but not those of her family. She closed her eyes for a moment, as though to gather her strength—there were so many of them—she couldn't look, couldn't open her eyes and see Richmond dead on the floor—her mother's screams were echoing in her ears—spells were shouted, but she couldn't distinguish the voices—she opened her eyes and saw Nila throw a kitchen knife that sank, quivering, into a masked man's chest—a streak of wand light illuminated the house, and Marlene saw the ornate tea set, its cupboard ripped open—at the same moment, she heard a piteous cry and saw her niece, her ten-month-old niece, staring fearfully up at a masked face as its owner came nearer—

A spell hit Marlene's back as she rushed forward, sending pinpricks of pain through her whole body, but she didn't stop. She knew now what the Vision had meant. She wasn't supposed to avert it—she was supposed to make it worth something. All she could think of was her niece's terrified face, as she threw herself in front of the wand in the Death Eater's hand. She thought, _there's no time for anything else,_ and then, _I love you, Caradoc_—and then there was a flash of green light—

Elvendork McKinnon might have only been ten months old, but she knew an impossible situation when she saw it. The nasty man with the monster mask had frightened her, and then Aunt Marlene had been there, but the nasty man must've done something, because she'd crumpled to the floor, her dark hair flying as she fell. Elvendork (or Ellie, as her Aunt Marlene had called her) knew there was only one thing to do. She would have to hide. So she ran into the hall closet and got behind all the raincoats and umbrellas and old boots, and didn't move a muscle.

And either because of her superb hiding ability, or because young witches do have a knack for making things go their way without the benefit of a wand, the Death Eaters didn't find little Elvendork McKinnon.

Even the Aurors had trouble, when they finally arrived (too late, of course—the Death Eaters had already gone, leaving the Dark Mark high above the house). Indeed, at first they couldn't find the little girl at all, and were inclined to dispute the idea that she was there to be found. But at last, as dawn seemed imminent, they thought to cast one more _Hominem revelo_ spell, and this time they found her, curled up among some old coats, fast asleep.

"What about the McKinnon kid?" asked a young man with a lion's mane for hair gruffly.

His companion, an older, cynical man whose office was next to that of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, answered, "Dunno. Next of kin, s'pose."

"What if she hasn't got any?" protested the younger man.

"Orphanage, probably. Hang on, there's the case file. Read it yourself if you're so interested. Makes the third family this week we've found under the Dark Mark."

"I know," said the young man rather absently, flipping through pages. "Richmond McKinnon—he'll be a loss. Oh, here it is! She's going to a cousin of her mother's—Sarah Louise Perks."

"Fascinating," growled the older man.

The young man with the hair of a lion looked down at the picture of Mrs. Perks, and sent the little girl they'd carried from the wreckage of her family's house all his hopes that she would be all right. "It just doesn't seem right," he said aloud. "Elvendork McKinnon, orphan."

"Elvendork?" choked his companion. "You don't mean they actually—"

"'Fraid so. Poor girl. She's alone."


	3. Diamonds in the Rough

**Diamonds in the Rough**

"He got into Beauxbatons. The letter came this morning," said a woman's voice diffidently.

"No grandson of mine is attending some namby-pamby French school!" protested a deeper, masculine voice. Its owner was clearly agitated.

"Of course not, darling," said another, older woman's voice meltingly.

"Perhaps a smaller school—Eikenboom, or the Salem Institute?" suggested the first woman carefully.

On the third stair from the first floor, eleven-year-old, dark-haired Leo Lestrange's eyes widened. He was quite well-read for his age, and he didn't much relish the thought of going to school in Holland (he didn't speak Dutch) or America (they had their own problems—particularly with pitch-fork carrying Muggles. Though that might have been a rumor). He wouldn't have minded Beauxbatons, though. Most of his childhood friends were going there, he already spoke French fluently, and he would still be quite close to Chateau Lestrange, his home since he was three years old.

However, he knew there was no chance of his being allowed to have any say in the matter. Once Grandfather Reynard and Grandmother Rheanna had made up their minds about something, there was never anything he, or his mother, could do but obey gracefully. Leo was fairly confident that if he simply dug in his heels and refused, his grandparents wouldn't actually hurt him. But they would have no hesitation in laying the blame for his disobedience upon his mother, and the situation would deteriorate rapidly from there.

Once, after a particularly painful argument about Leo's newfound friendship with a few of the neighborhood children, his mother had slipped silently from the room while his grandfather raged about the impropriety of his heir consorting with Mudbloods and Muggles. Leo had stayed and listened to the lecture, his ears straining for the sounds of his mother's silent tears. Eventually, it dawned on his grandfather that Leo wasn't really taking in a word he said.

"My boy," he had said, his voice softening. Leo had met his gaze coldly. "I only want what's best for you. You understand that, I'm sure. Those children would only have brought you down. We must do our part, to keep our bloodline pure."

"I know, Grandfather," Leo had replied, answering docilely with the ease of long practice. One could never argue with Grandfather about bloodlines or family. Although he never spoke of his two sons, imprisoned for acting upon their belief in Wizarding supremacy, Leo knew the old man was proud of them—his father and uncle whom he barely remembered. They were the reason the Lestranges lived in France—far from the prying eyes and malicious tongues of their countrymen.

Grandfather had smiled. "You're my favorite grandson, my boy," he said gruffly.

Leo raised his eyebrows. "I am your only grandson."

At that, his grandfather's smile turned nostalgic, and he murmured, "When you do that you could be the spitting image of your uncle. Yes, you're a true Lestrange. You can apologize to your mother for me—I was angry, and my words were hasty. Still, there will be no further contact between you and those Muggles, those degenerate polluters of our race. Understand?" His harsh voice rang out commandingly.

Leo inclined his head politely, unafraid yet unwilling to set his will in opposition to his grandfather's then, when he was sure to lose. "Of course, Grandfather," he said smoothly. Then he turned and left.

He had found his mother in her room, near the top of the castle. She was weeping silently, but stopped upon his entrance. She crossed the room to him, putting her hands on his shoulders and studying his face. Even then, he had been almost as tall as she was.

"Grandfather apologizes for his quick words," Leo told her.

His mother laughed. "Oh, priceless!" she cried, but was serious again at once. "My son, if I could, I would have you away from here. Someday we won't be dependent on your grandparents, and you will be free to choose your friends as you wish. That I swear."

"Mother, why don't we do that now?" he had asked. His grandparents were very generous to him, of course—as long as he did what they wanted. But even as a child of eight, he recognized that their treatment of his mother was reprehensible.

She smiled sadly at him. "We can't. Your grandparents will see that you get a proper education, and that you never go hungry. That's what is important."

"What about you?"

"I'm all right," she said softly. Then she shook out her dark brown hair as though she could shake away such depressing reflections. "Come. It's a beautiful day. I'll show you how to make the insects leave you alone when you're outdoors."

And now, around three years later, Leo sat perched on the staircase, listening. His grandparents would never realize he was there—one of the advantages of living in such an old and creaky castle. He waited in some trepidation for the inevitable storm from his grandfather.

"No, not Eikenboom—what a ridiculous name—and not the Salem Institute—my grandson won't learn magic at the hands of some damned bourgeois, interfering, democratic Americans! He'll go to Hogwarts, where I went, where his own father went to school, where my grandfather went! He's a Lestrange, not some sniveling little half-blood who can't do any better than Beauxbatons!"

"What if he doesn't get into Hogwarts?" countered Leo's mother swiftly.

His grandmother laughed. "Not get into Hogwarts? We have not yet sunk so low that even Dumbledore would _dare_ not admit him! His name has been down for Hogwarts since his birth!"

"But don't you think," began Leo's mother, losing ground but unwilling to admit defeat, "that England might be too…disruptive for him? There are rumors…Dumbledore's teaching practices are unorthodox, to say the least…" her voice trailed off suggestively.

"He_ is_ a Muggle-loving fool," conceded Grandfather. "But that doesn't alter the case! Why, Leo comes from a long line of distinguished Slytherin men! It's his heritage—his destiny! And he'll only find it at Hogwarts."

"But he'll be so alone there—away from his friends, his family—prey to hateful speculation—"

"You go too far, woman!" stormed Grandfather. "My grandson is no coward, to run from the remarks of the foolish and idle! You've been filling his head with ridiculous fears, have you? Trying to turn him against his own flesh and blood? You think we can't send you away? That we need you here? The boy will go where I say he goes, and do what I say he does! I am the master of this house!"

On the stairs, Leo winced. He hated it when his grandfather threatened to send his mother away. It hadn't happened yet, of course, but there was no saying when the threat might be carried out. If that happened, Leo swore, he would never forgive his grandfather.

Although she had married into a wealthy family, Leo's mother had virtually no money of her own. Several times she had been on the point of taking a job, but Leo's grandparents always insisted that such things were beneath a Lestrange, and that they could well afford to keep Leo's mother in the style to which, if not she, his grandmother was accustomed.

The real problem, other than his mother's obvious unhappiness, was the fact that Leo's grandfather's threats had become more extravagant and frequent lately. Leo suspected him of no longer thinking with the clarity that had guided him so well, managing the Lestrange estates and fortune. And he didn't like to think what that might mean.

"Of course, darling. Of course," cooed his grandmother soothingly.

"Hogwarts it is, then," said Leo's mother, graceful even in defeat. "But at least let me return to England with him—I can stay at the mansion; no one has used it in years—"

"Why should we pay for you to live in England?" demanded Leo's grandfather. "So you can coddle the boy? He's a Lestrange! He doesn't need your excessive mothering!"

"Nevertheless, I am his mother," she said quietly.

Before Grandfather Reynard could make another angry retort, Grandmother Rheanna intervened, saying softly, "You know, darling, I think she's right. The mansion could certainly do with a proper, supervised spring-cleaning—Merlin knows one can't entrust the entire enterprise to house-elves—and there's no reason why she can't at least stay in the same country as the boy. It won't make the slightest difference to us—Leo will, of course, return here for all his school holidays."

Briefly, Leo wondered about the implication that his grandmother would be pleased to live in a different country than his mother, and didn't much care how this was accomplished, but decided it wasn't worth investigating. His grandmother had a knack for persuasion only surpassed by her phenomenal skill as a Legilimens. It was safer not to probe too deeply or think too passionately around her, Leo had learned.

"Well…" conceded his grandfather. "I suppose. You'll both be here for the holidays, of course. And mind: I don't want you filling the boy's head with a lot of nonsense about what he can expect. He belongs at Hogwarts, and that's all there is to it."

"Of course," said Leo's mother submissively.

Though he couldn't see them from where he sat, Leo amused himself by picturing how they must look: his grandfather, dominant and irascible, seated on the throne-like chair by the fire; his grandmother, standing slightly behind him subserviently, her long hair (almost completely white, now) shining with reflected firelight, and her dark eyes glittering coldly; and his mother, diminutive and doll-like in the gowns that cost more Galleons than she'd ever seen before her marriage, eyes lowered demurely and one ankle crossed behind the other. He could almost see the thoughts racing through each mind as they argued—like a life-sized, politically charged version of wizard's chess. Leo sighed softly. He would miss them.

"Hogwarts," he whispered softly, tasting the word, and wondering what it would mean for him. Then he carefully made his way back up the stairs, secure in the knowledge that his eavesdropping skills had improved. His heart beat fast at the thought of the changes in the imminent future—whether from fear or exhilaration he couldn't tell. This was going to be an adventure.

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"Get the mail, Fanny-May," said a middle-aged blonde woman crossly.

Her thirteen-year-old daughter scowled from her place near the end of the kitchen table. "Make Freddie do it," she said crossly, propping her feet up against her seat and burying her nose in a book entitled _Year with the Yeti_, by Gilderoy Lockhart.

Without looking up from his breakfast, an eleven-year-old boy said idly, "Make Sally-Anne do it."

The nine-year-old sitting beside her mother flushed. "Make Dulcey-Rose do it."

A seven-year-old girl looked up from her cereal long enough to say impudently, "Make Daddy do it."

Entering into the spirit of the thing, the man at the far end of the table muttered, "Make Tammy-True do it," without looking up from his newspaper.

"Make Tommy-Tim do it," said a five-year-old girl, scowling.

Tommy-Tim, the youngest Perks, looked around at his family with an air of angelic innocence. "Make McKinnon do it," he said at last, and then promptly got into a tickling battle with his twin sister Tammy.

"McKinnon!" called Mrs. Perks. "Get the mail!"

A dark-haired, haughty-looking girl of eleven got up unhurriedly from her seat. Freddie-Mack pinched her as she passed, but she made no acknowledgment, save for a slight thinning of the lips. She crossed to the hall, picked up the mail, flipped through it idly, and saw a complex crest on three of the letters.

It was a curious design, but the girl referred to as McKinnon refused to be distracted. She was planning her escape from chores after breakfast, and she couldn't let her concentration slip—Cousin Sarah-Louise would be sure to read her intent in her mind unless she retained control. She carried the letters back into the kitchen, and sat down again between insipid Sally-Anne and the Troublesome Twosome (Tammy-True and Tommy-Tim).

"Here, Cousin Sarah-Louise," McKinnon said politely, passing her the letters.

Idly, Mrs. Perks flipped through them. Mr. Perks rattled his _Daily Prophet_. Cornelius Fudge gesticulated from the front page. Fanny-May scowled around the room. Freddie-Mack kicked McKinnon's chair surreptitiously.

"So anyway, my friend Melania says—" simpered Sally-Anne.

"Godric Gryffindor's sword!" exclaimed Cousin Sarah-Louise. "It's here!"

"What's here?" Mr. Perks, Fanny-May, Freddie-Mack, Sally-Anne, Dulcey-Rose, Tammy-True and Tommy-Tim asked together. McKinnon waited coolly, her expression unreadable.

"Freddie-Mack's Hogwarts letter, of course!" cried Cousin Sarah Louise happily.

"Oh, where's mine?" demanded Fanny-May at once, making a grab for the letters. She was entering her third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and felt she deserved precedence. But then, McKinnon reflected wryly, Fanny-May always felt she deserved precedence.

"Oh, my Godric!" exclaimed Freddie-Mack. "Let me see!" he leaned over the table, dragging his sleeve through the butter and grabbing for the letters too. His mother held them over her head, laughing. McKinnon rolled her eyes. Freddie-Mack was such a twerp.

"Let's see it!" demanded Mr. Perks. "Not that we'll ever be able to afford it," he muttered pessimistically.

"Me, me!" shrieked Tammy-True. Tommy-Tim pushed her, and immediately they were off on yet another two-part harmony temper tantrum.

Dulcey-Rose grinned cheekily over at McKinnon. "So there!" she said obscurely. At McKinnon's slightly raised eyebrows, she elaborated. "I know you reckoned Freddie-Mack isn't good enough for Hogwarts, but it's obvious they take _anyone_. I can't wait, myself. And then you'll be stuck here with the twins. So, 'so there'!"

McKinnon frowned reprovingly at her, but no one else paid the third daughter of the house any heed. They were all gathered around Cousin Sarah-Louise's chair now, oohing and aahing.

"Oh, here, girl," said Cousin Sarah-Louise as a palpable afterthought. "This is yours." She tossed another letter with the highly elaborated H on it to McKinnon.

The girl caught it easily, and ran her finger under it to open it. It was addressed to Miss E. McKinnon, the kitchen, Number 4367 Catahecassa Lane, Ottery St. Catchpoole, and it informed that young lady that she had a place in the first-year class due to graduate in 1996. It also told her the various supplies she would need. She made a careful mental note to discover and record the prices of each item exactly.

Miss E. McKinnon didn't think her _darling _relatives had stolen too much of her inheritance yet—her meals and clothing were covered in the arrangement her cousin Sarah-Louise had signed with the Office of Magical Law—but one could never be too careful.

"Hogwarts, here I come!" shouted Freddie-Mack exuberantly, throwing his own letter into the air. Tommy-Tim caught it and promptly put it in his mouth. Tammy-True tugged on the spare edge of the parchment, and it ripped in half. Freddie-Mack, red-faced, ran over and succeeded in wrestling the chewed and torn pieces of his letter from his indignant siblings, and retaliated by smacking them both. Tammy-True started shrieking at once, and Tommy-Tim glared so fiercely that McKinnon couldn't help but think Freddie-Mack ought to be afraid for his life. Typically, he ignored the danger.

As Cousin Sarah-Louise hurried over to comfort the twins, he leaned over McKinnon's chair ominously.

"So, you and me together again, huh?" he said with a false attempt at bravado. In truth, his cousin's cool gaze rather unnerved him. "Just remember, you stay away from me and my friends. I wouldn't want to hurt you, seeing as how we're related and all."

At this, McKinnon let out a disbelieving laugh. Then she got up, having tucked her letter under her shirt, and prepared to make her way quietly up to her room. Before she had gained the safety of the hall, however:

"You, girl! Get back here! We have to arrange things for our trip to Diagon Alley. McKinnon!"

The girl sighed inwardly. Although she was counting the days—the _hours_—until she could escape to Hogwarts, with Fanny-May and Freddie-Mack there to spy upon and bully her, it promised to be a challenge. Furthermore, they were going to Diagon Alley, which meant somewhere out in public, which meant she would have to endure Cousin Sarah-Louise's cheery, false smiles and hugs ("yes, my cousin's daughter, yes, I love her just like one of my own!"). And it was too much to expect that any of the Perks brood would stay at home, either. Sally-Anne would insist on coming along, and then Dulcey-Rose would smile slyly and get her way (honestly, if the Gryffindor-mad Perkses weren't careful, they would have a Slytherin for a daughter) and the Troublesome Twosome would throw a tantrum as soon as it looked like they might be left behind…the girl frowned in familiar frustration. She _hated_ being an orphan.

"_Now,_ Elvendork McKinnon!" shrieked Cousin Sarah-Louise angrily. As the dark-haired young girl turned, she remembered there was something else she hated: her name.


	4. Shakespeare and Sorting

**Shakespeare and Sorting**

The platform was crowded. Anxious to escape her cousins, Elle McKinnon peered through the fog at the scarlet train. If she had been a melodramatic sort of girl, she thought wryly, she would have heralded that train as her savior.

"All right, Fanny-May, be good—no flirting!" said Cousin Sarah-Louise sternly. "And you look out for your brother, understand? And as for you, Freddie-Mack, if I get so much as a _whiff _of a letter about you from the Headmaster, you'll be cleaning the toilets. Without magic. For three weeks. Of course, you'll be in Gryffindor—that's not even a question—oh, well, I suppose you'd better run along—" as the train's whistle sounded.

Elle tuned out the sounds of Cousin Sarah-Louise's last-minute fussing over her two eldest children, and resolutely ignored—with the ease of long practice—the persistent yanks on her skirt and noisy complaining from the Troublesome Twosome (five-year-olds Tammy-True and Tommy-Tim Perks). She would have liked to have boarded the train immediately, but she knew she would be punished if she didn't allow Cousin Sarah-Louise to have her say ("Godric knows you've never been any trouble, you unnatural—_darling_ girl, but if you think now's a good time to get Freddie-Mack in trouble, I'll confiscate those pestilential books you're always reading and you think I don't know about, young '_lady'_, and we'll see if you're all cool and calm about _that_"). As though Elle knew no better than the Troublesome Twosome how to guard her belongings against attack—or at any rate, she would, just as soon as she did a bit of investigating in Hogwarts' famous library. Cousin Sarah-Louise was a fool. But Elle had always known that.

As she scanned the crowd of hurrying students, looking for a distraction, her gaze locked with that of a boy her own age. His eyes were a cool dark brown, with hidden depths, and his hair was as dark as hers. He was already wearing his black school robes, and above them his bold, patrician features stood out in a white face they were as yet too big for. Although his expression didn't change, as they looked one another over, Elle was conscious of a vain wish to meet with his approval.

She herself wore a hand-me-down dress of Fanny-May's. It hung loosely and unflatteringly on her slim body. Her dark eyes looked large in her oval face, and her long dark hair hung in a heavy braid down her back. The Troublesome Twosome clung to her faded skirt, and the mundane sounds of the Perkses' leave-taking filled her delicate ears. Yet for a moment, she felt as if she and the aristocratic boy were the only people on the platform.

Then a short, dark-haired woman leaned toward him, fussing with the collar of his robes, and the spell was broken.

Leo Lestrange hadn't expected to see the haughty girl from the platform again. The look they'd shared had been slightly unnerving in its intensity. Still, he supposed he should have expected to meet her—she looked like a first-year, and his mother had told him the number of Hogwarts students had decreased dramatically since his grandparents' day. How the school managed to stay open in the face of such flux was a matter passing his comprehension, but they had done it for a thousand years, after all.

So, he told himself, he really shouldn't have been surprised when the girl walked into his compartment.

He was sitting by the window, brooding over his grandfather's parting words: "Well, my boy, this is it. You're off to Hogwarts, the same school I attended, and your father, and my father before me. Just remember, son: don't disgrace your name. I won't have you hobnobbing with any filthy Mudbloods. You have a duty to the family, my boy. Make me proud."

"Hey," said the girl. "Mind if I sit here?"

Leo gestured welcomingly. The girl struggled with her trunk for a moment, then abandoned it in the doorway and peered through the window. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her; she turned, pulled out a wand, and levitated her trunk onto the rack conveniently located for that purpose. Then she sat down by the window, opposite Leo.

Leo watched her curiously, but decided not to help. She seemed to have everything under control, anyway.

The girl reached into a pocket of that ridiculous dress and pulled out a slim book. It didn't look like one of the textbooks Leo's mother had taken him to buy in Diagon Alley just the previous week. Curious in spite of himself, Leo asked, "What are you reading?"

The girl blushed slightly, then lifted her chin. "It's Shakespeare. _Hamlet_."

"Shakespeare…I've heard that somewhere before…" Leo mused, thinking. "Who was he?"

"A Muggle poet," she answered.

"By Salazar!" he exclaimed interestedly. "Not the crazy one?"

"No," she laughed. "That was Poe. And some people think he was a Squib, you know. I like Shakespeare the best. The tragedies all really mean something, even if they don't have witches and wizards." As she spoke, her eyes sparkled enthusiastically. Leo watched, fascinated. "But you're probably not interested in this stuff. I mean, you're pureblood, right?" she asked, eyes fading back to darkness and worry.

Leo hastened to reassure her. He couldn't remember wondering about her blood status once since he'd seen her, but now all his grandfather's bitter words on the subject of encroaching Muggles, filthy Mudbloods, and sniveling half-bloods came rushing back. His mother wouldn't approve, either—she was living on tenterhooks as it was about his schooling, and her own precarious position in the Lestrange household. And she didn't believe in disregarding danger, even for the sake of a fledgling friendship.

"Well, I am pureblood," he told the girl lightly. "But I'm certainly interested. What about you? How did you find out about this Shakespeare person?"

"Library had a few of his books in the novelties section," she shrugged. "And I'm pureblood, too, so don't worry. You don't have to throw me out of the compartment."

"I would never do so," he assured her sincerely. "After all, I'm just as new here as you are; I have no right to throw anyone out of anywhere. Who are your family? I doubt we've met before, since I live in France, but—"

"France. Wow," said the girl, and the sparkling look was back in her eyes.

Before Leo could elaborate, or the girl answer his question, a group of rowdy first-years crowded into the compartment.

"Hey, you don't mind, do you?" asked a curly-haired girl, sitting down beside Elle. She frowned. She did mind, but doubted this extraordinarily outgoing girl would listen.

"Oh. It's you," said Freddie-Mack, spotting Elle and frowning. Nonetheless, he sat down beside the aristocratic boy and immediately proposed a noisy game of Exploding Snap. Surreptitiously, Elle cast a protective spell around herself and the aristocratic boy, both crushed against their respective corners of window.

Freddie-Mack had brought several new 'friends': the curly-haired girl, two redheaded identical twins, a nervous-looking boy with glasses, a blond girl who smiled good-naturedly at everyone, and a brunette who glared around indiscriminately. The inevitable occurred just before the lunch trolley came by, and it was a decidedly singed group of eleven-year-olds who pulled out Knuts, Sickles, and the occasional fat gold Galleon.

Elle's only consolation was that her spell seemed to have worked: she and the aristocratic boy had escaped excessive singeing (which was a blessing, since the old gown of Fanny-May's wouldn't withstand much more ill-treatment). She missed being tête-à-tête with the aristocratic boy, and it afforded her some guilty satisfaction that he looked as uncomfortable with the interlopers as she felt. She sighed inwardly, and stared out the window.

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"Larrimer, Thomas!"

The dark-haired, dark-eyed eleven-year-old boy in the crowd of other Hogwarts first years tensed. Other students might have allowed themselves to wait until their own name was called before paying attention to the Sorting Ceremony. But Leo, for all his youth, was no stranger to probability. And the probabilities in this situation were problematic in the extreme. First of all, his own last name was almost certainly next. And then what? Another almost-certainty: his surname was far from being unknown to the vast majority of Hogwarts' staff and students—and it was even further from being appreciated by them. Except, perhaps, for a few students whose parents were similarly notorious.

"Gryffindor!"

The boy felt a jolt of nervous anticipation. Any second now, the ordeal would begin. With an effort, he smoothed all nervous tension from his face and body language. No matter how worried he was, the masses need never know.

"Lestrange, Leopold!"

The dark-haired boy, Leopold Lestrange (or Leo to his friends) exchanged a brief but speaking glance with the girl beside him in line (a charming, if haughty, brunette he'd met on the train) and walked forward as casually as he could.

Leo sat down on the stool conveniently provided, and continued to make no sign that he heard any of the whispers and boo's that chased themselves around the room at mention of his infamous surname. Currently, of course, his father was languishing in Azkaban with his uncle, aunt, several old friends, and hundreds of soul-sucking fiends (Dementors).

The tall, stern woman, Professor McGonagall, placed the battered-looking Sorting Hat on his head.

"Interesting," murmured a voice in his ear. No stranger to nonverbal, mind-to-mind communication, Leo refrained from making even a mental jump of surprise.

"Very interesting," was what the Hat had to say to that. "Yes…a Lestrange, is it? Well, you're definitely ambitious…keen on proving everyone wrong about you—well, at least you know it'll be hard work. You've got a fine mind, of course—and you're brave when it comes down to it…still, someone with as cunning and complex a mind as yours undoubtedly belongs in SLYTHERIN!"

The last word was shouted to the audience; rather bemused (having inanimate objects tell one about one's deepest desires and personal strengths was a bit unnerving), Leo took off the Hat, placed it on the stool, and walked calmly toward the table hung in green.

Unless he was much mistaken, they were clapping louder for him than they had for Cyrus Kane or Melania Melrose. Resigning himself to the inevitable (that not one of his new Housemates believed he wasn't a budding Death Eater like his father), Leo sat down beside a first year girl with incredibly rambunctious hair to watch the rest of the Sorting.

"McKinnon, Elvendork!"

For the briefest instant, the haughty girl from the train glared awe-inspiringly: her eyes flashed intense and uncontrollable fury. In that moment, Leo's interest in her as a potential friend increased by leaps and bounds. Then her eyes glossed over into a supercilious calm, and she walked sedately to the Sorting Hat.

"Elvendork?" jeered a tall Slytherin sixth year. Leo glared at him.

Elvendork McKinnon perched genteelly on the stool and waited in icy calm. Fury still raced through her blood at the reminder. What a horrible name her parents had saddled her with! And what she wouldn't give to have them in her life to tease her with it!

"Elvendork," said a voice in her mind. "How…original."

"It's Elle," thought that young lady frigidly.

"Well, Elle, you are determined," said the Hat, still sounding amused. "Let's see…you're intelligent, reasonably brave, eminently practical…and quite the youthful rebel. Have you considered Gryffindor?"

"Not Gryffindor," thought Elle, managing to sound as though she were talking through clenched teeth even though she wasn't talking and her teeth weren't clenched.

"Not Gryffindor, huh? Well, in that case, let's see how you do in SLYTHERIN!"

Elle rose, placed the offending Hat upon the stool, and swept toward the Slytherin table. At first, the sly, laughing looks of the older students made her wonder if this was really the place for her. But then, who wouldn't laugh at Elvendork? It was a terrible name. Elle sighed inwardly. Suddenly, she caught sight of the aristocratic boy she'd met on the train. He was a Lestrange, which, according to Cousin Sarah-Louise, was a Death Eater surname if ever she'd heard one. But he was smiling at her, and Elle could tell he felt no inclination to laugh at her ludicrous name. She smiled back, sitting down beside him. It was as though she couldn't help it. He was so…interesting. Yes, that must be it.

During dinner, it occurred to Elle that her Cousin Sarah-Louise (the woman who'd been responsible for her since her parents' tragic deaths when she was barely old enough to remember them) would no doubt be _livid _that she'd been Sorted into _Slytherin._ Perks children _never _went to Slytherin. Well, Elle wasn't a Perks. At the thought of Cousin Sarah-Louise's inevitable rage and chagrin, a truly wicked smile (worthy of any Slytherin) spread across Elle's face.

Leo, watching her, couldn't suppress a matching grin. He knew he'd found a friend. In that instant, amidst a sea of chattering young witches and wizards, Leo Lestrange and Elle McKinnon shared the exact same thought: _this whole Hogwarts/Slytherin thing may not be so bad after all._


	5. Cemented Alliance

**Author's Notes**: Slight delay there...but the saga continues. Leo Lestrange and Elle McKinnon return in...

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**Cemented Alliance**

"So, what'd you think of Professor Snape's lecture?" dark-haired, eleven-year-old Leo Lestrange asked casually. Inwardly, he felt a momentary panic. What if she refused to answer? Or laughed to scorn his feeble conversational gambit? They didn't really know one another, after all—a shared appreciation for Shakespeare and a pronounced lack of regard or respect for Freddie-Mack Perks seemed, now that he thought about it, a woefully short list of common interests. What did he really know about her, anyway?

Elle McKinnon looked up from her textbook (_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _by Phyllida Spore) and smiled, tucking a strand of long black hair behind one ear. "Let's just say I'm glad I know the difference between fluxweed and pennyroyal. You?"

"Quite," Leo replied, carefully seating himself in the armchair across from her. He watched her face—impassive, but for her expressive, ever-changing eyes—for her reaction.

She gave him a speculative look. Elle was wondering if she could trust Lestrange—instinctively, she felt she could, but experience had taught her that the nicest of gestures might conceal malice. She decided to bring the question out into the open. "What about his…_welcoming_…speech for the whole House? Rather intimidating, wasn't it?" She paused, allowing him the opportunity to ridicule her—should he choose to take it. Showing weakness always cost her something, but she hoped the reward might be worth it.

Leo understood the sacrifice she was making, and admired her courage. He was also glad to know she was willing to explore the friendship they'd begun. "'No blood magic, no underage sex, and no in-House dueling,'" he quoted, attempting to imitate the cold, powerful tones of their sinister Head of House. "Intense."

"Very," she agreed calmly, as though to negate her earlier admission of fear. "What's the third name for monkshood, again?"

"Wolfsbane?" he suggested, happily entering into the spirit of the thing.

"No, got that one. This book is so poorly organized!" she complained.

Leo shrugged. He had yet to find fault with that particular book, but his Defense Against the Dark Arts text had at least three highly dangerous typos ('th' and 'nad' for such common words as 'the' and 'and' were one thing; mixing up 'confringo' and 'confundo' was another). He rather suspected Professor Lohair of being flighty and careless—never good qualities in a professor. Either that, or she meant to bring down the entire school through Confunding Charms and hypnotic suggestion.

"Starts with 'A,' doesn't it? Aparecium?" he suggested. "No, that's a spell to reveal what's invisible…"

"Alihotsy?" Elle sounded it out doubtfully. She was rather enjoying this now, and determined to come up with something truly ridiculous. "Axminster?"

"Monkshood is no flying carpet," Leo laughed. He determined to outdo her in absurdity. "Auto-Answer Quills?"

Her eyes gleamed appreciation. "Abyssinian shrivelfigs?"

"Anapneo? Aguamenti?"

"Alohomora? Armadillo bile?"

"Accio?" Leo saw the pages of Elle's book turn as though in an abrupt breeze, and swore. "By Salazar," he muttered. Unconsciously, his hands had drifted toward his pockets, causing his wand to be within range of his fingers. He'd cast the Summoning Charm! Although he supposed he hadn't done it that well, since the book wasn't flying toward him…Annoyed, his lips thinned. It might be a spell not taught until fourth year, but he was a Lestrange! It ought to work for him!

"Oh, Merlin!" exclaimed Elle, laughing hysterically.

"What?" Leo demanded, offended. Was she laughing at his feeble charm?

She pointed to the page the book had settled upon. "'Aconite, or wolfsbane, an extremely poisonous plant, is also called monkshood because the shape of its flowers is reminiscent of a monk's cowl,'" Leo read. Relieved (his spell had worked, although not in the way he was expecting), he started to laugh as well.

"Outsmarted by a textbook!" exclaimed Elle, still laughing. "And we call ourselves a witch and wizard!"

A little while later, after they had both regained control over their laughter, Leo demanded, in mock outrage, "Alohomora? What, were you born yesterday?"

"Aguamenti?" she countered scathingly. At his piously innocent expression, she burst out laughing again. "You should always help me with my homework!" Elle suggested, half in jest.

But it was the other half that intrigued Leo—and which he responded to as best he could. He rose from his armchair and bowed. "I should be happy to assist you in any way possible, Lady Elle," he said graciously, in his best grown-up voice.

Not to be outdone, Elle got up as well, her face a polite mask. "Why, thank you, Sir Leo," she said in excellent imitation of Suzanne Carey, Slytherin fifth-year prefect. "I'd be honored."

"The honor," Leo said nobly, his exultation properly concealed—this was the Slytherin Common Room, after all—"is all mine."


	6. Pureblood

**Pureblood…**

"I don't like your cousin," Elle McKinnon informed her best friend, her dark eyes flashing.

"I'm not too fond of him myself," agreed Leo Lestrange suavely. "What, in particular, has he done to incur your displeasure?"

"On my way out of Arithmancy, I passed him and those hulking, idiotic friends of his giving Tracey Davis a hard time because her uncle was caught with illegal substances. As though that had anything to do with her! The poor child was nearly in tears!"

"In tears? Isn't she one of ours? Slytherins never cry in public. She can't be very bright. And as for her uncle—I heard about that; he was high on mallowsweet and got himself stuck to the Gringotts ceiling, wearing next to nothing; he sang all fifty verses of Odo the Hero before they got him down, and then he tried to hex the goblins—but honestly, Draco is one to talk about embarrassing relatives." Leo grinned ruefully. "After all, he'd probably love it if_ I_ disappeared into the woodwork. Uncle Lucius can't have anything jeopardizing his position on the Board of Governors."

"That's so unfair. You're a model student!" complained Elle, sitting down next to Leo on the most comfortable couch in the common room. "Nothing will convince me Lucius Malfoy escaped Azkaban with anything but money. Still, I suppose there is nothing wrong with rich relatives. You're lucky."

"Oh, I don't know," said Leo, idly playing with his introductory Ancient Runes text. So far, Ancient Runes was proving one of his best subjects. He had a natural flair for languages; having grown up in France, he was bilingual already. "We aren't actually that closely related. Draco's mother's sister is my father's sister-in-law. Each of us probably has half a dozen closer cousins at Hogwarts right now. Perhaps a few we don't acknowledge because of their 'dangerous' Muggle leanings. It's the price of pure blood."

"It's not the only price," Elle said darkly, staring moodily into the fire. Leo refrained from comment, merely offering her his silent sympathy.

After awhile she sat up, shaking off her depression. "So," she said brightly, "have you noticed anything odd about Professor Quirrell?"

"What is _not _odd about that stuttering, turbaned freak?" demanded Leo with suppressed violence. Elle quirked her eyebrows at him. "Or, yes, I have. Why?" corrected Leo promptly.

"I don't know," Elle replied thoughtfully. "I just…I suppose I wonder if it's just coincidence that Professors Lohair and Pinchpenny left so precipitously."

"Defense Against the Dark Arts…it's enough to scare away even the heartiest would-be professors (ie, Pinchpenny)?" Leo asked.

Elle shrugged. "Who knows? Ten Knuts says I beat you at Wizard's Chess!"

"Only ten Knuts?" complained Leo.

"I never rob my friends," Elle countered swiftly.

Leo laughed, reaching for the chessboard. Chastising his cousin (should it prove necessary) would have to wait.


	7. Looking for Trouble

**Looking for Trouble**

"Ha, ha, we beat you!" taunted Gryffindor third-year Freddie-Mack Perks. He and a few other Gryffindor third-year boys had cornered an elegant, dark-haired girl just a few feet away from the stairs that led to the dungeons. Drunk on victory and their own exuberance, they smirked mercilessly at her.

She raised her eyebrows at them, determined not to be a victim. This wasn't bravery on her part—simply common sense. Her long acquaintanceship with Freddie-Mack had taught her the perils of ever giving in to bullies.

"Excuse me," she said politely, but with a tone that conveyed louder than words, '_get out of my way, you impudent, inconsiderate, idiotic, incompetent, unimaginative, sadistic fools_.'

"You thought you were going to win the House Cup—well, we showed you!" crowed Freddie-Mack.

"Actually," said a calm voice from behind them, "I think you'll find Potter won the Cup—through a complete disregard for his own and others' safety, and of course excellent flying technique and a bit of luck. You had nothing to do with it."

"After all," Elle said sweetly, grateful for the support but determined to show that she was far from helpless, "you were the ones refusing to speak to him for weeks and weeks after Professor McGonagall caught him wandering around in the middle of the night—probably looking for trouble."

"One can never get Gryffindors to understand that one doesn't need to_ look_ for trouble; it always finds one quite well on its own," Leo pointed out blandly.

"And," Elle said softly, eyes narrowed, "if you don't get out of my way right now, Freddie-Mack Perks, you'll find trouble is a lot closer than you think."

Freddie-Mack took an involuntary step back, but rallied enough to shout after her and Leo, "You'll regret this, McKinnon! All summer, you and me and half the neighborhood, no magic…and _I'm telling_!"

"Is he always like that?" Leo asked, as they made their way to the Slytherin Common Room.

Elle sighed, dreading the summer…"Unfortunately. Honestly, I know everyone reckons Gryffindors are the reason the world goes 'round, Merlin's gift, polishing their halos every few weeks just because…but, well, all I know is, those people don't know my cousins. You reckon Potter's one of those 'perfect hero' types?"

Leo snorted. "Hardly. But that doesn't mean he won't turn out incredibly powerful and unstoppable—although he really doesn't look it. Dumbledore's pet, of course."

"Of course," sighed Elle.

They gave a nondescript-looking piece of wall the password, and parted to go to their rooms. It had been an interesting year.

The following day, Leo found himself quite worried about Elle. Somehow, the way she was forcefully not dwelling on her approaching painful summer was tragic. He wished he could invite her over, but knew his grandfather would never go for it. Sure, she was a pureblood, but her parents had been in the Order of the Phoenix, and (which was even worse) she lived with Sarah-Louise Perks, the woman who exemplified how all purebloods were related in the worst possible way. Well—perhaps not the worst possible way—there was the Dark Lord, after all. Not that his grandparents ever permitted him or anyone to talk about that.

"Owl me," he told Elle firmly, as he watched her prolong the task of moving her trunk.

"Of course." Elle smiled. "Have a good summer—Sir Leo."

He grinned back, bowed, and took his leave of "Lady Elle."

"Who was that, just now?" his grandfather demanded querulously. Leo was surprised—his grandparents didn't usually meet him at the station—but replied calmly enough.

"That's Elle McKinnon, Grandfather. She's in Slytherin, my year."

"Is she pureblood?"

Leo frowned, looking offended, and inwardly sighing at the question's predictability. "Of course."

"How was your year, sweetheart?" asked his mother. His grandmother, he noticed uneasily, was supporting his grandfather as they walked out of the station.

"Oh," said Leo casually, carefully refraining from thinking about Potter, Malfoy, Quirrell, Arithmancy, or Dumbledore, "the usual."


	8. Three is Company

**Three is Company**

In the end, it was no particular incident that prompted Leopold Lestrange (Leo for short) to decide it would behoove him to show the world (or, at any rate, Hogwarts) that he bore Neville Longbottom no enmity. In fact, he reflected, the sooner he could make Longbottom into a dear friend, the sort for whom one might walk through fire without a Flame-Freezing Charm, the better.

Really, a year and a half of the rumors, expectant whispers, and eddying gossip stalking his every move was more than enough, Leo reflected. Merely because his reprobate father, uncle and aunt were responsible for the enforced residence of Neville's parents in St. Mungo's Long-Term Residence Spell Damage Ward, people expected him to murder Longbottom in a duel. All those whose parents remembered that infamous trial and gossiped about it at home were convinced it was only a matter of time before Lestrange destroyed Longbottom.

These rumors were particularly infuriating to Leo because, in his three and a half years at Hogwarts, he had done his utmost to be kind to the younger students—even those who did not hail from his own House of Slytherin. Longbottom was a second year now, and everyone who didn't believe Harry Potter was the Heir of Slytherin was eyeing Leo askance. In short, something had to be done.

"Hey, Longbottom," Leo said casually one afternoon shortly before the end of autumn term. He slid into a seat across from Longbottom, who looked terrified. Leo had specifically chosen the library for his attempt. It was quiet, but quite crowded, in case Longbottom decided to rebuff him and went and got himself Petrified (meaning plenty of witnesses would be able to say he hadn't left the library in time to sic the Creature on Longbottom). If they'd met alone, it would have been his word against an angry mob's; not odds he liked.

"Hey, L-Le-Lestrange," muttered Longbottom, deciding he couldn't ignore his debonair companion.

"Call me Leo." It was said kindly. It had occurred to Leo that Longbottom might feel some embarrassment (perhaps even rage) if confronted with the name Lestrange. Consequently, he determined to bring that ancient, noble name into the conversation as little as possible.

"Neville." Longbottom still looked wary, but less like he expected Leo to pull out his wand and curse him any second. As though he would ever do so in a crowded library. Gryffindors were always so naïve.

"What're you working on?" Leo asked, still casually.

Longbottom—or, Neville—was definitely looking bewildered now, but he answered readily enough. "Potions," he said with a long-suffering sigh. "I hate Professor Sn—" he paused and gulped, looking fearfully up at Leo.

"Professor Snape," finished Leo cordially. "I suppose he can be a little…difficult, at times." Not, of course, that Leo ever had any trouble with him—saving the occasional enigmatic, measuring look—he was in Slytherin, after all. "Potions, huh?" he continued, smiling slightly. Leo had a very charming smile, no less so because it was rarely seen. "I think I know just who can give you a hand."

"No, really, I'm fine—" Neville protested in alarm; but Leo had already raised a languid hand to a tall, slim girl on the other side of the library. She rose gracefully, and walked toward them.

Elle McKinnon was a dark-haired Slytherin fourth year. She was also an orphan. Her eyes were cool dark brown and intelligent, and an air of watchful stillness hung about her. She was lithe, athletic, and just the tiniest bit shorter than Leo. The two of them had been best friends ever since their first train ride to Hogwarts.

"Well?" she prompted, once she'd reached Neville's table, one hand on her hip and an eyebrow raised.

"Elle, this is Neville Longbottom. Neville, Elle McKinnon."

Neville muttered something that might have been 'nice-to-meet-you;' Elle simply nodded.

"Neville here needs a bit of a hand studying for Potions," continued Leo smoothly. "I know how eager you are to help the hopeless, Elle."

Neville shifted uncomfortably. Was that meant as an insult? Hopeless at Potions, or having lost hope in his own abilities? He couldn't be sure, yet Leo's tone robbed his words of offense. It was astonishing how charming he was, Neville thought. Not what you'd expect from a Slytherin at all. Mostly they just sneered and jeered. And as for Elle McKinnon—it was hard to imagine her wasting her time helping _him._ Although it was equally hard to imagine her as part of a giggling posse of Slytherin girls.

Meanwhile, Elle gave Leo an exasperated look. She had plenty to do herself, after all. And besides, who was this Neville Longbottom? Random Gryffindor second years could hardly be expected to interest her (they reminded her too much of her despised foster family). Still, it was Leo who was asking. Leo never asked without a good reason.

"Fine," acquiesced Elle. "But you owe me one."

Leo grinned and bowed slightly (difficult while sitting down). "Your wish is my command, Lady Elle."

"More like the other way around," grumbled Elle, but she was smiling.

Neville, an interested spectator of this little interchange, wondered just what he'd gotten himself into. Undoubtedly, he should have left the table the moment charming Leo Lestrange had sat down.

At the end of an hour or so, he was inclined to revise his initial opinion. Acerbic as Elle was, there was no denying she was something of a Potions expert. More than once, she reminded Neville of an older, darker, more cynical, Slytherin Hermione Granger.

Leo stayed as well, books open in front of him. Every so often he would make a gently sardonic comment, and he and Elle would bandy a few words back and forth. Neville was surprised to find he enjoyed their company.

Later, as Leo and Elle made their way to dinner, Elle admitted Neville was more intelligent than she'd expected, and rather subtle, for a Gryffindor.

"Yes," agreed Leo, "Unless I'm much mistaken, Lady Elle, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"As long as your intentions are honorable, Sir Leo," countered Elle, with rather a grim smile.

Offended, Leo inquired dramatically, one hand over his heart, "Do you doubt that?"


	9. Slytherin Score!

**Slytherin Score!**

"So, you're sure about this? I mean…" second-year Neville Longbottom asked, looking around at the green-accessorized masses. His fellow students frequently intimidated him, and staring around at all those Slytherins, together in one place, potentially about to turn, see him, and hex him into the next century…Neville gulped.

His companion seemed blithely unaware of his discomfort. Or perhaps she was simply indifferent to it. "Come on, Neville. Everything will be fine."

"How can you be so calm?" he grumbled as they found seats in one of the back rows. He tried not to make eye contact with any Slytherins. Who knew what they would do? At least Malfoy wasn't in the stands; as Seeker, he would be flying out onto the pitch any second now.

The girl beside him seemed amused. "I really don't think anyone is going to hex you, Neville. Besides, you're with me. And you know there's no way I was going to sit in the Gryffindor section with you. I have my pride."

Neville stole a sideways glance at her. He knew that wasn't the real reason—she wouldn't sit in the Gryffindor section because of her cousins. There were at least three of them at Hogwarts now. He studied her profile. She was sitting very straight (Neville's Gran would have approved her posture). Her long dark hair streamed down her back, looking silky-smooth, and her cool dark eyes were fixed upon the pitch. As usual, there was a faint air of tragedy about her. He thought she looked especially worried, though.

"Elle?" he asked. She turned toward him politely. "Are you worried about Leo?"

"Of course not, why would I be worried?" she said at once.

"Well, because this is the first match he'll officially be playing in," Neville pointed out. "And sure, he's been on the reserve team since his second year, but since Adrian Pucey is off sick, or injured, or whatever, this is his chance to show he deserves to be on the team in his own right."

"Yes," Elle acknowledged. "But, of course, he'll be brilliant. And anyway, it's only Hufflepuff."

Neville decided not to point out that Cedric Diggory, Seeker and Captain of the Hufflepuff team, was really quite good, and that anyway Hufflepuffs weren't actually dunderheads, no matter what most people said about them. There was no reason to worry her more, after all.

He sighed, thankful that this wasn't Gryffindor versus Slytherin. Of course, that match had already happened—as usual, won handily by his roommate Harry Potter—but all the same, he felt devoutly thankful he hadn't worn a red and gold Gryffindor scarf that morning, but one of the ones his Gran had made for him. He pictured himself getting mobbed by an angry Slytherin horde, egged on by Professor Snape, while Elle and Leo smirked a few feet away, debating whether to save him or leave him to some unspecified but horrible fate.

He gulped again in fear, glancing around at the Slytherins nearest him. Luckily, none of them appeared to be glancing his way. He felt devoutly thankful that Professor Snape, seated in the first row, hadn't seen him come up here. Hopefully, from a distance, he simply looked like any interested, innocent spectator. Of course, one never knew with Professor Snape.

"And they're off! Slytherin in possession, Montague heading toward goal—"

With a start, Neville realized the game had started. Elle was leaning forward, her eyes fixed on the speeding figure that was Leo.

"His broom is different than the others," Neville commented, surprised. "I thought Malfoy's dad bought everyone Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones."

"Not the reserve team," Elle answered briefly. "Leo's folks are rich, though—he has a Cleansweep Seven."

"Lestrange tears up the pitch, Hufflepuff's Keeper blocks it—no! Slytherin score!" called Lee Jordan, a Gryffindor with a grudge against Slytherin—though that was rather redundant, Neville supposed.

At the mention of Leo's family, he had felt his spine stiffen. No matter how much he might admire and like Leo, who had so far been a great friend and had introduced him to Elle, he could never be comfortable with his family. Although he knew Elle had been talking about the elder Lestranges, Leo's grandparents, any mention of them still rankled, and sent splinters of anger and hurt racing up his spine.

People said it was ironic, his friendship with Leo. Neville didn't know about that—but already, it was painful.

"Slytherin lead, fifty-ten…"

Neville watched as Leo raced through the air, leading Montague and Flint in several complex Chaser formations. The Hufflepuffs were good, but Leo was better. Malfoy and Diggory circled above the rest of the game, looking for the golden Snitch.

"Slytherin in possession, Chaser Lestrange ducks two Bludgers, three Hufflepuff Chasers, races toward goal…"

Suddenly, the attention of the crowd seemed to sharpen. Malfoy dove toward the Hufflepuff goalpost—

"Slytherin Seeker's spotted the Snitch!" cried Lee Jordan. "Diggory close on his heels—Malfoy narrowly misses a Bludger—pity, but there it is—Diggory is gaining—"

Neville saw Malfoy and Diggory hurtle toward the Snitch, now neck and neck—the Snitch changed direction, heading back toward the Chasers, and Malfoy tried to shove Diggory out of the way—he reached out a hand—Diggory, impossibly, was faster than Malfoy and his Nimbus Two Thousand and One—Diggory snatched the Snitch by one struggling wing—

The game was over. Slytherin win, two hundred and twenty to one hundred and seventy. All around Neville, Slytherins were cheering their new highest scoring Chaser—Leo Lestrange. Draco Malfoy landed, scowling.

"Come on," said Elle, getting up and yanking Neville's arm. "Let's go."

"And meet Leo? But he's surrounded—I really don't think—" began Neville, getting up and swaying slightly with vertigo. He felt dizzy at the thought of going closer to a horde of screaming Slytherins. Briefly, he wondered if this were some sort of nightmare.

Then Elle pinched his arm in her haste to find Leo. Wincing, he regretfully abandoned his theory.

They pushed through the crowd, Elle shoving people out of her way with reckless abandon. What she lacked in actual upper body strength or intimidating stature she made up for in sheer fierceness. Neville followed as best he might.

At last, they reached Leo. He was heading back to the changing rooms with the rest of the Slytherin team, minus Malfoy, who seemed to have gone off sulking. A few more Slytherins were crowded round, congratulating the team (for their victory) and themselves (for no reason Neville could see). As they got closer, they could hear what Leo and the Captain, seventh-year Marcus Flint, were saying.

"—so practice is every night we can get the pitch, usually pretty late; that work for you?" Flint was asking.

"Of course," answered Leo calmly. "Are you sure about this?"

"Sure? You just scored thirteen goals! I should bloody well think I'm sure! Welcome to the team, Lestrange." Flint clapped Leo on the back. "You'll love it."

Leo nodded. Some instinct seemed to tell him Elle was there—she'd made her way as close as possible in the crowd—because he turned around and grinned at her. Neville felt bewildered; Elle definitely hadn't said anything aloud.

"Good game," Elle said softly.

"Thanks," Leo replied, and his smile seemed to grow even warmer.

"Yeah," agreed Neville, breaking into their moment. He kept glancing around nervously. On the plus side, most of the students (including Leo's new fan club) seemed to have dispersed. Unfortunately, a few teachers were still on the field, including Professor Snape. "Good job, Leo. Really."

Leo raised one eyebrow at him.

"I hate it when you do that," Neville muttered.

"Well," said Leo carefully. "You are a member of our rival House. I appreciate you coming to watch, but surely you're planning on reporting my techniques to your famous roommate…"

Neville was shocked. "I never even thought of doing something like that! I would never—are you accusing me of spying on you?"

Elle shrugged. "Why not?"

Leo grinned at Neville. "Forget it. I know you're too good for that."

"Of course," said Neville, still somewhat annoyed.

"So," began Elle, deftly changing the subject, "who's Marcus going to kick off the team in order to give you your spot?"

"Adrian, I think," answered Leo, grimacing. "He's only a third year, so…"

"The Slytherin team is organized by seniority?" Neville asked, confused. "How can you ever expect to win?"

Leo shrugged. "It's not all seniority. And after the Gryffindor fiasco, I'm not sure Marcus _did_ expect to win."

"Good for you, challenging expectations," praised Elle. Her lips twitched in the beginning of a smile.

Leo smiled back, but started walking again, toward the changing rooms. "I got to go. There's the victory party later, and the posturing, and what I'm going to say to Adrian…It's a whole big thing. Nev, take care of Elle."

Elle glared at him.

"So sorry, I meant, Elle, take care of Neville," Leo said, grinning. Then he swung the door open, and disappeared into the changing room.

Neville glanced over his shoulder. Professor Snape was perilously close, striding back toward the castle beside Professor Sinistra. Professor Lockhart was also nearby, declaiming on the proper way to score a goal against a well-organized team of Chasers to Professor Sprout (who looked furious).

"Er…walk me back to the castle?" he asked Elle nervously.

"What?" She looked around at him. "Oh—of course. You're safe with me, silly."

"Yeah," said Neville, thinking aloud. "Yeah, I guess I am."


	10. Loss

**Loss**

"I can't believe those idiots! Those walking monsters still haven't found Black! Do you think he'll actually be thick enough to try and break into the castle again? Leo? Lestrange!" Draco Malfoy said forcefully, hitting the table with his fist.

Leo Lestrange sat staring at the letter he'd received in the Great Hall, but hadn't opened until now. He had long since discovered it was seldom good practice to distract oneself with one's correspondence just before class. Numb, he could no longer read the words in front of him, much less listen to his obnoxious cousin.

"Lestrange!" Draco said again, even more loudly.

"Oh, find someone who cares, why don't you?" Leo answered harshly, not even looking up.

Draco looked nonplussed. Although their relationship was hardly close, Leo rarely used that tone on anyone, even provoking Gryffindors (not that they weren't all provoking, of course). For the first time, it occurred to Draco that something might actually be wrong—other than the recent attack on the school by well known mass-murderer Sirius Black—who supposedly was only interested in Harry Potter, but had nearly murdered Ron Weasley—Draco had a sigh for that—ah, what might have been. Still, it seemed unlikely Black would look for Potter in the Slytherin Common Room. So why the extra venom in his cousin's tone?

Draco wasn't the only one to have noticed something amiss. "Leo?" asked Elle McKinnon softly, from her place at the table. Unlike Draco, she knew Leo-in-a-bad-mood was hardly unprecedented—but she had a sinking feeling about that letter.

"Lestrange—you're a prefect!" exclaimed Draco. "Aren't you supposed to care about this sort of stuff?"

One look at Leo's white face, and Elle rose, addressing Draco. "Back off, Malfoy," she said quietly. People were turning to look at them, wondering what was amiss. Elle still didn't know—but they didn't need to know that. "_Now_," she added venomously, when he simply stared at her.

"Who died and made her the boss?" he grumbled to Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Still, he spoke quietly enough that Elle felt she could justifiably ignore it.

"Leo?" she asked again.

He looked at her, and she almost cried out at the despair in his eyes. "Let's go," she said, with sudden decision. She grabbed her book bag, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him out of the Slytherin Common Room, past the Great Hall, up several floors, and to a blank stretch of wall across from a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

_I need someplace safe,_ she thought, pacing in front of the wall three times. A door appeared, and Leo and Elle entered.

Only then did Leo speak. "Here," he said, shoving the letter he still clutched at her. "Read it. Just read it."

Elle took the letter gingerly. It was written in neat, no-nonsense handwriting (Elle smiled; clearly her kind of person) on expensive, but plain, parchment.

_My dearest Leo_ [it read],

_I am writing with bad tidings. The slight but lingering illness with which your grandfather has been struggling flared up suddenly. There was nothing anyone could have done. Your grandmother and I had it all out with the best Healers, but I'm afraid they weren't able to save him. Your grandfather is dead._

_You will, of course, come home for the funeral; I've already written to your Head of House, asking him to let you out of school for a few days. I'll meet you at Hogsmeade Station tomorrow at three o'clock. Don't be late._

_Your loving mother,_

Leea Lestrange

Elle looked up from the letter, tears of sympathy starting in her eyes. "Oh, Leo, I'm so _sorry_," she said impulsively, for once not analyzing her feelings or her words.

"I don't understand," he said desperately. "I mean, _Grandfather_…"

Elle walked over to him, handed back the letter, and hugged him fiercely. At first, he stayed stiff in her arms; then he hugged her back, weeping silently on her shoulder.

The next day, Elle walked with him to Hogsmeade Station—they were both silent, but she knew he appreciated her presence. If it had been her, she would have hated to be alone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The funeral was horrible, as funerals always are.

Afterward, Leo was forced to sit in a cramped lawyer's office, back in London, with his mother, pragmatically making all the arrangements, and his grandmother, not saying a word and staring sightlessly around, while the lawyer paced back and forth, telling them about his grandmother's portion, and the small trust left in place for Rabastan Lestrange during his lifetime. Naturally, the estate and everything that was entailed (a ridiculous, sexist custom, that, Leo thought) went to Uncle Rodolphus, but since he and Aunt Bellatrix had no children it would almost certainly eventually go to Leo. Everything else—after Uncle Rodolphus, his father, and Grandmother Rheanna—was his in trust until he came of age.

"Can I give my mother control of the trust?" he asked at length.

"No, I'm afraid not; the trust is arranged through the Office of Magical Law—it will break automatically on your seventeenth birthday," said the lawyer. Well, he said it longer—but that was the gist.

"Can I give my mother a percentage of the interest from the estate, since that is mine to run—my uncle, you understand—?"

"Yes," said the lawyer—or rather that was what it boiled down to.

"Do that," said Leo.

He was still forced to undergo more in the nature of going through the legal documents and drawing up a contract for his mother—it was so unjust that she had no source of income herself—but, eventually, it was over, and he was allowed to go back to school.

It surprised him how much he was looking forward to it—even seeing Draco Malfoy and possibly coming across dangerous Sirius Black had assumed a rosy glow in his mind. Most of all, he missed Elle.


	11. Dramatic Irony

**Dramatic Irony**

_Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everyone what had distracted him. _

_The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment. _

_Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out—_

"_Harry Potter__."_

At the Slytherin table, sixth-years Leo Lestrange and Elle McKinnon turned to one another, and, as one, mouthed, "Figures."

***

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Quoted text from chapter sixteen of _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire._


	12. Relationship Issues

**Relationship Issues**

Elle didn't know whose idea it had been_ not_ to go to the Yule Ball together—hers or Leo's—but she was fast reaching the conclusion that they were both idiots.

At least she had the consolation of being well dressed. Her roommates, Serena Carey, Lorraine Rosier, Carmela Carlow, and Brianna Yaxley, had oohed and aahed over her elegant green dress robes and elaborately curled and coiffed black locks (although, of course, Serena was the most stunning—as a Carey, she had both beauty and good fashion sense). Too bad Leo would never notice—her, not Serena. All boys noticed Serena.

There he was now, dancing with his date for this farce, Lucrèce Lapointe. Elle narrowed her eyes, studying the French girl. Her hair was pale gold, her features delicate, her dress gauzy silver…Honestly, she looked like a slightly faded, frailer facsimile of Fleur Delacour—which she was, in a way. Elle rolled her eyes, remembering Leo's casual, throwaway explanation: "Lucrèce's just really broken-hearted about not being chosen for the Tournament. She needs me. I'm taking her to the Ball, just as friends, of course."

Boys (even Slytherin ones) could be so clueless.

Did Leo really think Lucrèce was so 'broken-hearted' that she needed the 'comfort' of her childhood friend's escort? Their dance was hardly platonic. Elle refrained from overanalyzing her concern for her best friend—a rarity for her. She supposed she ought not to be upset at all—Lucrèce had known Leo before she had. She just hated to see him taken in. It was true they had never actually said they were going to the Ball together…but it had been an understood thing. Just as friends, of course. The last thing either of them needed was romance.

Seen that way, Elle admitted to herself, her own conduct in accepting Basile Favre's escort (in a moment of insanity) did seem perverse. She didn't even like him!

Basile, another of Leo's old friends who'd gone to Beauxbatons, was undeniably handsome. He had a great deal of charm. But something unpleasant lurked beneath his flattery, Elle knew. She wondered if Leo was aware of it, or if he'd failed to notice during the holidays he spent with these people—surely, not all his French friends could have decided to enter the Triwizard Tournament.

There was Lucrèce, of course, and Basile; and then the scholarly Anatole Caron, the comic Eudes Garcon, and the entertaining Fiacre D'Aramitz. Elle, who stayed at Hogwarts every holiday she possibly could, had never been to France—her Cousin Sarah-Louise would never permit it—but she judged Leo's friends to be near the top at Beauxbatons (after Fleur Delacour, of course).

"Sweet lady, may I offer you some liquid refreshment?" Basile's voice intruded on her chaotic thoughts. "You shine brighter than the stars tonight, beautiful Elle. Your name is French—it becomes you. You are the perennial lady tonight."

"Thank you," said Elle politely, not specifying whether she meant for the drink or the compliment.

"It is hot in here; you are fatigued—you will join me in the so-charming gardens?" he asked, holding out his arm. She meant to say no, but, happening to glance over at the dance floor, she saw Lucrèce laugh (broken-hearted—hah!) and whisper in Leo's ear.

"Certainly," she said coolly, taking his proffered arm and sipping her Butterbeer.

Once outside in the cool garden, doubt assailed her. What did she know of Basile Favre, anyway? Sure, he was an old friend of Leo's, but Leo seemed on far more intimate terms with Fiacre, Eudes, and (unfortunately) Lucrèce. Also, for all his overblown charm (or perhaps because of it) she couldn't trust Basile. They walked, and she waited, wand inches from her manicured fingers.

Before Basile could do anything untoward, however, they passed Professors Snape and Karkaroff going in the opposite direction. They appeared to be arguing.

"Miss McKinnon! Mr. Favre, is it? What are you doing?" asked Professor Snape furiously.

"Walking, cher professeur," said Basile, raising one eyebrow superciliously.

Elle had a sinking feeling. So he too had noticed. Professor Snape might consider smiling the eighth deadly sin, but he rarely rebuked his own students with the same venom he expended on (for instance) Harry Potter. Clearly, whatever Karkaroff had to say was unwelcome news. Uncertain of the precise relationship between two such disparate people (unctuous Karkaroff and icy Snape) Elle had done her homework: they had both been tried as Death Eaters, but Dumbledore had vouched for Snape, and Karkaroff had betrayed his erstwhile comrades in exchange for liberty. She failed to see how this 'ancient history' could be at all interesting to Basile, whose nationality removed him from personal concern, but she couldn't suppress a faint feeling of alarm. Basile was no Death Eater, of course…His family rarely visited England, even…She was sure it was nothing.

Snape glared at Basile. Elle, sensing that he wanted someone on whom to vent his spleen, yanked Basile's sleeve forcefully. _He_ might not be wary of provoking the Potions professor (believing his guest status to protect him from detention), but _she _was not so unwise.

"Excuse us, Professor Snape," she said respectfully, and pulled Basile past the two quarreling professors.

"What was that all about?" he asked curiously.

She shrugged, not wanting to waste time coming up with appropriate lies. Instead, she decided on the truth—or part of it. "I don't know."

Basile glanced at her stern profile, and decided not to push it. The English and their strange professors were no concern of his, after all. "Your beauty puts the stars to shame," he said, meaning it. How Leo could have missed what was right in front of him like this, he would never know. He stopped, and pulled her closer.

Elle didn't move, not sure where she wanted this to go. In her experience, boys like Basile were usually far more interested in girls like Lucrèce, or Serena, or Fleur Delacour. Still, he looked pretty interested, gazing down at her like he'd never heard of Lucrèce or Serena. She blushed.

Basile bent down toward her, and then his lips met hers. It was Elle's first kiss, and she wasn't sure she liked it. His hold tightened on her shoulders, and she felt smothered.

Elle struggled gently at first, and when Basile didn't let go, she hit him with a Banishing Charm, and the two of them were thrown apart.

"Cherie—" he began, annoyed.

"What's going on?" a new voice asked. Elle closed her eyes for a moment, gathering strength. It was Leo. Of course, it was Leo. Relief warred with embarrassment and anger. Pride won.

"Where's Lucrèce?" asked Basile, taking the words out of Elle's mouth—though she rather suspected their reasons were widely divergent.

Leo looked from one to the other, knowing he had interrupted something. Elle's face was flushed, and her eyes flashed daggers. Basile was glowering, and tapping his foot impatiently. If he thought Leo was going to leave Elle alone with him after this—! Well, it didn't take a Legilimens to guess what had been going on. Leo's fingers itched to hex Basile, but he mastered the impulse. Elle was quite capable of fighting her own battles, no matter how much he would have liked to fight them for her.

Leo caught Elle's eyes with his. She raised her chin proudly, but the dagger-glint in her eyes seemed to simmer down slightly.

"May I have this dance?" Leo asked, bowing slightly.

Elle felt confused. Now what was Leo doing? He had definitely asked Lucrèce to the dance…where was she? Was he ignoring Basile's question because he didn't know, or was Lucrèce dancing with someone else? And why ignore Basile? They were friends, weren't they? Or did he guess what had happened between her and Basile?

As she looked into Leo's eyes, her anger seemed to subside. In the end, what difference did it make that he'd asked Lucrèce to this ridiculous attempt at overcoming 'cultural barriers'? Or that she had gone with Basile, who needed a lesson in civility? Why wasn't Leo challenging Basile? But did she really want them to fight over her? Sure, it sounded romantic on paper, but it would inevitably bring Professor Snape down upon them, and she and Leo would get detention, while Basile, 'our guest,' got off scot-free. And she hoped she wasn't some sniveling, swooning, helpless damsel in distress, like Lucrèce—even if that was what Leo wanted, she couldn't bring herself to even fake something so mawkish.

So she sank into a small curtsey, and said, with a tiny smile for Leo alone, "Thank you, kind sir, I would love to dance." She took his proffered arm, and they walked back toward the Great Hall and the dance floor.

Basile glowered at them, and muttered to Leo as he passed, "So you've finally caught on, eh? You're an idiot, Lestrange—on both counts."

Leo frowned, but dismissed his old friend's words. What could he have meant but to spoil the rest of the evening for Leo and Elle? Leo suspected he'd already offended and upset Elle more than she cared to admit. Pulling Elle slightly closer to him protectively, Leo dismissed Basile (and clingy, simpering Lucrèce—who seemed to have changed a great deal and now wanted him to buy her expensive jewelry—it wasn't that he couldn't afford it, but he hated her sense of entitlement) from his mind. He was going to enjoy the rest of this provoking ball—and so was Elle! Leo was determined.

Elle grinned when Leo pulled her closer, deciding to give up on weighty politics and irritating dates who took liberties without permission. She was a sixteen-year-old girl at a ball, and she was going to enjoy herself. The night was fine, she loved to dance, and the stars themselves seemed to shine more brightly than usual. She hoped Basile found simpering Lucrèce—those two deserved each other. Besides, it served as an excellent method for removing Lucrèce from Leo's orbit.

For his own sake, of course. Elle had only her best friend's interests at heart.

* * *


	13. Pandemonium and Potter

**Pandemonium and Potter**

Beside Elle, Leo seemed to get twitchier and twitchier. They stared blindly down at the maze into which the four Triwizard champions had disappeared. Elle stole a glance over at Leo. His eyes were wide, fixed on the maze, his shoulders tight and raised nearly to his ears and his fingers curled into fists on his knees.

The whole crowd seemed hushed, although Elle suspected that might be an illusion. Surely the Gryffindors ought to be making lots of noise and setting things on fire and in general causing trouble, and the Hufflepuffs ought to be chattering happily among themselves, while the Ravenclaws tsk-tsked the Gryffindors…Elle decided she must be imagining _not_ hearing all that. And anyway, it was ridiculous, getting so worked up over a simple contest…But then again, Victor Krum and the Veela girl (by some miracle_ not _one of Leo's old girlfriends) had already been rescued from the maze, both unconscious…

Suddenly, there was a flash of gold from the ground in front of the stands. Leo jumped. Elle flinched, and squinted down—yes, there were two bodies on the ground beside the Triwizard Cup. Of course—Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory. Had they tied for the Tournament? Something was wrong—why were they lying on the ground? The Harry Potter she knew (mostly from what Neville said and what she and the entire Common Room heard from Draco Malfoy) would definitely be standing up and graciously receiving the adulation of the crowd. Elle looked closer, watching Dumbledore striding forward and people in the lower rows shouting at each other and one of the bodies—taller, she could see that—_not moving_—

Elle forgot to breathe.

"He's dead!" she heard. "Cedric Diggory's dead!"

"You know what this means," Leo whispered, white-faced. His eyes hadn't left the dark blurs that were Cedric Diggory—_dead_—and Harry Potter, clutching the Triwizard Cup, and Albus Dumbledore, bending over them, his long white hair shining in reflected wandlight. "This means he's back. The Dark Lord is back."

Elle gave him a sharp look. "How do you know? They didn't give you some sort of warning tattoo when you were a tiny toddler, did they?"

Leo looked taken aback. "I don't_ think_ so…"

Elle sunk her head into her hands. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"Nonsense. The Dark Lord's back. Of course. What could we expect? Can we go? Sneak into Hogsmeade, grab a few Butterbeers?"

"And stay out of trouble?" Elle asked softly. She maneuvered her way through the crowd, Leo by her side. He put a hand on her shoulder as though to hurry her, and she was surprised to find she didn't mind.

They passed Dumbledore and the Diggorys agonizingly slowly. The Headmaster had tried to keep them from Cedric's body, but had been less than successful: Mr. Diggory had flung himself across his son's body, weeping, and Mrs. Diggory stood still as a statue, eyes wide and almost empty-looking, listening to Dumbledore's soothing platitudes. Elle marveled at that: did the man have a pompous, long-winded speech for every occasion?

At last they were clear of the grounds. No one tried to stop them; pandemonium still reined, and most of the professors had crowded around Dumbledore, waiting to be told what to do. No one had seen Professor Karkaroff; Madame Maxime was hovering over the Veela girl Leo had never dated, and Fudge was no doubt blustering away at Dumbledore. The students didn't seem to know where to go. People milled around aimlessly, or gathered in packs to exchange rumors. There were vampires in the maze, and that was what had killed Cedric. Potter was a dangerous lunatic who'd stop at nothing to gain the Cup, even murder. Diggory wasn't really dead, just in some kind of suspended animation. Surely, _surely_, if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had done it, everyone would have seen the Dark Mark? How _had _Potter managed to win the Tournament, anyway?

At last, they made it to the Three Broomsticks. Rosmerta knew they weren't supposed to be there, but she took one look at their faces and promised herself she'd never say anything. And anyway, she mused as she gave them their drinks, she'd always had a soft spot for a rebel.

"So you're absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent sure the Dark Lord is _really_ back? As in, walking, talking…killing?" Elle asked after several minutes of companionable silence.

"Afraid so." Leo stared down at his drink without really seeing it. He was picturing what this would mean for him, his family, Elle…"I don't have any proof, of course. And neither does Potter. So the Ministry won't go for it, or the average wizard on the street. And it seems fantastic: what is it with Harry Potter and the Dark Lord and surviving the Killing Curse? But I'm sure for all that. Honestly—either the Dark Lord needed Potter for some kind of old-as-sin resurrection ritual, or Potter killed Diggory and then ripped his own robes and gave him_self_ Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Which do _you _think is more likely?"

Elle tilted her head to one side. "Well, when you put it _that_ way…"

"What will Dumbledore do?" Leo asked, almost frantically. Elle saw he looked quite unlike himself, and knew he was picturing the endless dangerous possibilities this latest disaster might cause. Supposing the Dark Lord decided to storm Hogwarts in order to find and presumably finish murdering Harry Potter? Many lives would be lost…the younger students…Or supposing he organized a mass breakout of Azkaban, swelling the ranks of his Death Eaters and setting loose many more dangerous homicidal maniacs—including Leo's own father?

"Will he try to convince the Ministry? Waste of effort…Or contact whatever old resistance group he had, the one Potter's parents must've belonged to…And what about the giants?" Leo continued, talking feverishly.

Elle laid a hand on his wrist. "I know, but there's nothing we can do about that now," she said soothingly. "And anyway, we should be getting back—the younger ones will need reassurance, after tonight—"

"Of course," Leo muttered. Then he looked up into Elle's eyes and seemed to come back to himself. "Of course," he said again, louder. "We should get back. They need us. We're prefects, after all."

"Good," said Elle, getting up. She felt relieved. She didn't allow herself to think about what the Dark Lord's return might mean for her. After all, why anticipate trouble? She'd just have to keep her wits about her, that was all. And she didn't really suppose the Dark Lord would care enough to kill her, anyway.

Not unless she did something _really_ stupid.


	14. Growing Pains

**Growing Pains**

August 27, 1995.

Elvendork Darnell McKinnon woke up at precisely six o'clock in the morning, groaned at the unappetizing prospect of getting out of bed, and remembered it was her seventeenth birthday.

She sat up in one swift movement, glanced at the clock, dug her wand out from where she'd hid it in her underwear drawer, behind the pink and purple bathing suit she hadn't worn in, well, ever, and got dressed in fifteen seconds flat (that sort of thing was a lot easier to do with magic). She even managed to do it in almost complete silence, so as not to wake her cousins Fanny-May and Sally-Anne.

At one point, Elle had actually shared a room with Fanny-May, Sally-Anne, _and_ Dulcey-Rose. Luckily, now that the twins were going into first year, Cousin Sarah-Louise felt they couldn't justifiably share a room on account of being one boy and one girl, so she'd made Tommy-Tim move in with Freddie-Mack (who'd had his own room for more years than Elle cared to count, because he was the eldest boy) and Tammy-True was now sharing with Dulcey-Rose. Fanny-May, who was nineteen now, and had a job at Gringotts Bank doing some sort of secretarial work, wasn't always around, but when she was, she shared with Elle and Sally-Anne. Sally-Anne was going into her fifth year, and she'd already started freaking out about O.W.L.s.

Elle let herself out of their room very quietly, so as not to wake Sally-Anne. Fanny-May slept like a log and never got up before noon if she could avoid it, but Sally-Anne was the nervous type, ready to dash into wakefulness at the slightest provocation. Elle snuck down the stairs, being very careful to avoid the creakier steps. Everyone else was probably still asleep, but it wouldn't do to take chances.

She didn't so much as glance at the untidy, unsanitary kitchen, filled as it was with unwashed dishes from last night and old food stains from when Fanny-May was a baby and prone to throwing things she didn't like at the walls, and the few portraits snoozed on in their frames as she passed. None of them liked her much—but that was normal in this house. She stopped to pick up her trunk, already packed with everything she'd ever owned that the Perkses hadn't trashed or appropriated. The locks clinked a little as she opened the door. Then, at last, she was free—free of the stifling atmosphere of the Perkses, free to pursue her own destiny.

She walked two blocks just in case, and then Apparated into darkness with a loud Crack!

"McKinnon! Where have you been all morning, you were supposed to do the dishes!" Cousin Sarah-Louise glared at the ungrateful brat. Going into seventh-year, and she thought she could get away with disappearing for hours, just because it was her birthday. And after the way she enticed Freddie-Mack…Cousin Sarah-Louise had seen the way her eldest son eyed that girl's slender body. If she thought she was marrying into the family, or turning Freddie-Mack Perks against his best interests, she was sorely mistaken. Cousin Sarah-Louise Perks would do whatever it took to look out for her son's future. "You think you can just walk out of here any time you darn well please? You have a duty to us, girl! You could have been in an orphanage, but we took you in, raised you as one of our own—"

"Oh, shut up," said Elle, rolling her eyes. "You never treated me as one of your own. And honestly, given Fanny-May the slut, Freddie-Mack the bully, Sally-Anne the coward, Dulcey-Rose the spoiled brat, and of course the Terrible Twins, I can't entirely regret it."

"What! How dare you say those things about my darling children? You ungrateful little b—"

"Well, I just thought you should know," Elle shrugged. "Anyway, that's not what I came back to talk about. I'm hereby dissolving all bonds between us."

"What's that supposed to mean, Elvendork McKinnon?" demanded Cousin Sarah-Louise.

Elle closed her eyes briefly in pain at her hated first name. "Just this: I'm seventeen now, so I'm of age. You are no longer permitted to access my Gringotts account, and the money you receive for giving me houseroom is hereby discontinued, since I will no longer be living here. I'm taking full possession of and responsibility for my inheritance. On a more personal level, I don't want to see you again. I can appreciate what you did in raising me, or at least feeding and clothing me for the past seventeen years, but that's over. Obligation ended."

"So you're just leaving, after all we've done for you?" Cousin Sarah-Louise could hardly believe her ears. She was not looking forward to telling her husband they wouldn't be getting that extra monthly payment, either.

Elle laughed happily. "Pretty much."

"I hope you realize that I only did what I felt to be in your best interests," said Cousin Sarah-Louise, trying to regain control over the situation. "You were left in my care! As a ten-month-old baby! The least you could do is show some respect. You were always an impertinent child. But that's not important. Let me help you. As a woman of the world, I can advise you, teach you what you need to know—"

"—guard my money for me?" Elle interjected sardonically. "No thanks, Cousin Sarah-Louise. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've said what I came to say. Goodbye." She turned and walked gracefully toward the door.

"Wait!" Cousin Sarah-Louise could hardly believe it. She felt some affection for the girl, after having raised her with the rest, and she hated the thought of losing the income. The McKinnons had been fools, getting themselves involved in the war and not realizing those awful Death Eaters were sure to come after them, but they'd been _rich_ fools. A thought occurred to Cousin Sarah-Louise—how could the girl leave when she clearly had no place else to go? "Where are you going to live?" she demanded, sure she'd found the one question little Miss Perfect couldn't answer.

"Oh," Elle said softly, over her shoulder. "I'm sure I'll find…_somewhere_."

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"Honey, I'm home!" Leo called from the hall outside Elle's new apartment. It was the middle of the afternoon on his best friend's birthday. Consequently, he was carrying a rather large and imposing plant. It had its own pot filled with moist dirt, and Leo wore dragonskin gloves and was careful not to touch it with his bare skin.

The door opened. "Leo!" exclaimed Elle happily. "And…?" She eyed the plant.

"I brought you a birthday-slash-housewarming present," explained Leo. "It's a Fanged Geranium."

"How lovely," said Elle. But she took a quick step back. "Why don't you just put it there, by the window—yes, that's it."

Once the plant was successfully deposited near the window Elle had indicated—it relaxed and sent a few tendrils lolling innocently along the windowsill—Leo had leisure to look around.

"Well?" Elle asked anxiously.

Leo studied the small London apartment. Bedroom, bathroom, and combined kitchen and living space. It wasn't much, but it had a certain utilitarian charm. Elle had decorated it by painting her bedroom ceiling with a view of the night sky at Hogwarts (magically arranged to reflect the actual weather) and there were Slytherin banners everywhere. Elle said they made her feel more at home. The kitchen was filled with appropriate, practical dishes. There was even a mat in front of the door reading _Welcome to My Parlor_ superimposed over a shadowy image of a spider. Leo grinned, appreciating the joke.

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I would have to say…" he waited a moment for dramatic emphasis. "…That this place is adorable."

Elle grinned in relief. "I arranged everything earlier this summer, you know, just to be prepared, and I went to Gringotts this morning, armed with a Magical Law Consultant. Everything's settled."

"Impressive," commented Leo.

Elle traced a quarter circle with one pointed toe. "If you want to stay and hang out for awhile…this place still feels a little new to me, maybe…"

Leo reached out and touched Elle's cheek. She looked up at him, their eyes met, and silent thoughts and emotions seemed to flow between them for a moment.

Leo looked down, dropping his hand, and the moment was broken. "I'm sorry—I would, but I've got to help Grandma Rheanna move half the Chateau's furnishings into storage." He turned to go. Once he reached the tongue-in-cheek welcome mat, he looked back at Elle, standing forlornly in the middle of her new and elegant apartment, and smiled somewhat uncertainly. "See you at school."


	15. Defensive Magical Practice

**Defensive Magical Practice**

**(As Taught By Harry Potter)**

'_You place too much importance... on the so-called purity of blood! You fail to recognize that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be!'_

_----------------  
_

"Don't worry; you're going to love it, I promise. We actually learn stuff," said a round-faced, good-natured boy of about fifteen happily.

He was leading a matched pair of civil, serious seventeen-year-olds (the sort adults love) along a dimly lit hallway. His two friends were elegantly dressed and carried themselves well. The boy was tall and proud, with an air of easy assurance. His good opinion was frequently sought by his classmates, and he had already achieved a minor miracle: effortlessly, or so it seemed to the majority of his acquaintance, he had risen above the unsavory reputations of certain members of his family. That noble family name had been dragged through the mud some years ago, but this young man had earned the right not to be judged in the same court as his infamous ancestors.

The girl who strode beside him (her pace precisely matching his) was tall and slim, with an athlete's body and the tired eyes of someone who was forced to give up her illusions too soon. She had a similar reputation for fairness, and took meticulous care of her person, her reputation, her responsibilities, and her friends. Unlike the young man, her relatives were celebrated and honored as heroes. Indeed, there were many who deplored her apparent lack of similarity to this famous family. Still, she was efficient and just, qualities rarely found and still more rarely properly appreciated.

"Do you know what seventh-years are supposed to learn in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Neville?" the girl asked as they walked. Neville, the round-faced boy, shook his head. "Untraceable poisons, dangerous Dark artifacts, Top Ten Ways to Hide in Plain Sight, and of course the really good counter-offensive stuff."

"That goes without saying," put in the proud young man rather sardonically.

"And you know what That Woman is teaching us?" continued the girl.

"'Defensive Magical Theory'?" suggested Neville dubiously.

"Absolutely nothing," said the proud young man with finality.

"And you know what the worst part is?" complained the girl. "That book has absolutely no subliminal messages, hidden codes, or highly advanced mind-controlling magic. We've looked through it cover to cover."

"And you know what that means," sighed the proud young man.

Together, he and the girl complained, "The book really is _that boring_."

Neville was left with the distinct impression that his companions would actually have preferred a mind-controlling, Ministry of Magic certified, enslaving, magic-stealing book to the desperately dull (yet completely without peril) _Defensive Magical Theory _by Wilbert Slinkhard. At least that, according to his friends, would have given them something to work with.

By this point, they had arrived at a patch of wall indistinguishable from the rest of the castle. Neville halted before this. "Okay, now concentrate on having a place to learn real defensive magic, and walk past the door three times."

The girl rolled her eyes and the proud boy looked skeptical, but they obeyed. When Neville opened his eyes and grasped the handle of the door that had certainly not been there before, he allowed himself a grin at the swift shock (hastily concealed) visible upon his friends' faces. Then he led the way into the room.

Bookshelves lined the walls, several Dark Detectors stood on a sturdy table, and the floor space was almost completely covered with cushions. On the cushions sprawled people—teenagers, mostly from the ages of fourteen to eighteen, who all turned to look at the door. Neville had never been comfortable with the spotlight, but he felt it his duty to defend his friends. After all, when you're part of an illegal Defense Against the Dark Arts group, practicing in a magic room that can conjure you anything but food, calling yourselves Dumbledore's Army after your Headmaster, the only one You-Know-Who ever feared…well, you don't take too kindly to interlopers, even friendly ones. Especially if you think they'll report you to the Powers-That-Be-And-Make-Dunderheaded-Decrees.

Or at least, that was what Neville assumed was going through his friends' minds when they sat, staring openmouthed at the elegant pair behind him. Little did he know that quite a few members of the crowd were kicking themselves for not having him pegged as a traitor long before this. It's always the quiet ones, after all.

"Hi, guys," said Neville, with a credible assumption of ease. "These are my friends, Leo Lestrange and Elle McKinnon. They're here to join Dumbledore's Army."

For a moment, there was utter silence. Then pandemonium broke out.

"Lestrange? I can't believe even Neville could be _that_ stupid…"

"We don't need any_ Slytherins_. As well tell Umbridge ourselves!"

"Can you believe this? Lestrange and McKinnon? They're the last people we need!"

"So, Lestrange, you reckon your parents would be proud of you, sneaking your way into Dumbledore's Army?"

At this last comment, Leo's lips tightened. "I don't wish to discuss my parents," he said through clenched teeth. He hadn't spoken loudly, but his words reached everyone in the room. Some looked abashed; especially the more compassionate ones, like Cho Chang and Dean Thomas. Others, like Zacharias Smith, Ernie MacMillan, and the Weasley twins, continued to look skeptical of Leo's good faith.

"So, what? Wanted to make completely sure before running off to Umbridge? Godric, but Slytherins make me sick."

"McKinnon, I heard you have good taste. What're you doing with a Lestrange?"

Elle ignored this comment, addressing herself instead to a green-eyed, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had so far remained silent. "Do you want us to go?" she asked softly. Once again, all taunts ceased, as though Dumbledore's Army couldn't quite bring itself to miss a word spoken by either Leo or Elle. "I understand you're in charge here."

Harry Potter stared out at the sea of expectant faces before him, feeling that here was yet another defining moment in his leadership of Dumbledore's Army. He had no desire to fragment the group, but he simply couldn't bring himself to sink to the level of Draco Malfoy or Lord Voldemort, discriminating against people because of their House, or their family. "They stay," he said firmly.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding," muttered Zacharias Smith angrily. "Two Slytherins?"

Almost at the same moment, Ernie MacMillan said portentously, "The son of a Death Eater can hardly be considered a proper addition to Dumbledore's Army."

Fred and George Weasley glared identically. "You heard the man," said Fred menacingly.

"What Harry says goes; we agreed," put in George.

Neville shifted uncomfortably. Naturally pleased on Leo and Elle's behalf, he felt embarrassed for the gaucherie of his friends and classmates in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. They could at least be more polite! And honestly, if _he_ didn't hold it against Leo that his father, uncle and aunt had tortured Neville's parents into insanity, he didn't see what business it was of anyone else's. Besides which, everyone knew that Leo Lestrange and Elle McKinnon were the fairest prefects Hogwarts had seen in many years.

"All right. Sign here," said Hermione Granger, pulling a pen from her bag and gesturing toward a sheet of parchment upon which was printed, _Dumbledore's Army_, followed by a list of names.

"Dare I ask?" laughed Leo as Elle took the pen.

"Much better not," she said serenely, signing her name without a tremor. "Sometimes even we have to let go of our cynicism."

Leo laughed, taking the pen. "Oh ye of little faith," he murmured, referring (as Elle well knew) to their hostile audience. Sometimes, Elle thought she would go completely crazy, shut up in a castle filled with covertly hostile Housemates and overtly hostile everyone else, if it weren't for Leo. He was a breath of sanity in a world she still didn't understand.

Leo shared a look with her, communicating the silent, rueful thought, _Where will it all end, do you suppose? Potter must be quite the conjurer; the mob is silent_. Elle gave him a mental shrug. She had never liked Divination. Leo bent down and signed his name with a flourish.

And thus were Leo Lestrange and Elle McKinnon, under the kind auspices of Neville Longbottom, inducted into Dumbledore's Army—a teenagers' gang with one mission: to destroy Lord Voldemort, the greatest Dark wizard to have ever lived.

According to some.

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Quote is from chapter 36 of _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire._


	16. Wizarding Politics 101

Author's Note: Here is Wizarding Politics 101, back again--I posted it on the site before, but it fits in with this particular story.

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**Wizarding Politics 101**

'_Walk softly, and carry a big stick_.'

"Professor," chorused the two prefects politely. Albus Dumbledore glanced from one to the other, curious about the reason for this appointment. The seventh year Slytherin prefects stood before him. In many ways, they were a matched pair. Both were sleek, athletic, dark-haired, serious young people. The boy was more assured than the girl, Albus thought, but she was more determined. Both were good-looking in an athletic sort of way. Young Leo was actually on the Slytherin Quidditch team, but Elle had never seemed interested in organized sports. It was astonishing, Albus reflected, how alike the two best friends looked—to the best of his knowledge, they were unrelated (although purebloods were often closer relatives than they knew).

At the moment, both were gazing at him inquiringly. Roused to a sense of his obligations, he gestured welcomingly. "Please, Mr. Lestrange, Miss McKinnon, sit down. What seems to be the problem?"

They sat, as they did everything, together. Miss Elle McKinnon spoke first. "Professor Dumbledore, we're here because of some disturbing rumors that have reached us recently," she said directly.

"Verified by yours truly," murmured Mr. Leo Lestrange, his voice gently sardonic.

"It's about Professor Umbridge," said Miss McKinnon, meeting Albus's eyes. Her own spoke of an awareness of the awkwardness of the situation, but a resolve to bring the latest crime committed by Professor Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, to light. Inwardly, Albus sighed. He deeply regretted Professor Umbridge's appointment (though in truth, his hand had been forced).

"Go on," he said encouragingly.

"Recently, several of the younger students spoke to us about detentions they had received from Professor Umbridge," continued Miss McKinnon.

"Your pardon, Miss McKinnon," interrupted Albus. "But were these students all from your own House?"

Her eyes narrowed, but she made no comment upon his perspicacity. "As a matter of fact, they were from several Houses. A few Slytherins, naturally, a handful of Gryffindors, and a Hufflepuff or two."

"Ravenclaws," explained Mr. Lestrange, "don't get detention."

He and Miss McKinnon exchanged a subtle look. She continued, "The story these students told us was sufficiently arresting to require further investigation. Put simply, Professor Dumbledore, the students described their detentions. They claimed Professor Umbridge wanted them to write lines, but provided them with a quill that doesn't require ink. The students were forced to write with their own blood."

Miss McKinnon paused, plainly revolted. Mr. Lestrange took up the tale. "Naturally, Elle and I couldn't simply dismiss such an accusation. But use of a Blood Quill is a serious matter. I made a deliberately calculated comment in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Umbridge gave me detention, and I am able to verify that she has indeed been using a Blood Quill to punish her students."

There was a small silence. Albus was uncertain how to reassure Mr. Lestrange and Miss McKinnon. "The Ministry has expressed a desire to make changes," he commented, allowing them a glimpse at the political difficulties inherent in the situation. "Why come to me?"

"Ordinarily, our Head of House would be the logical choice," acknowledged Miss McKinnon. "However, in this case, it seemed to us that Professor Snape, however able to deal with adversity, would not be the correct confidante. After all, what power does one of Hogwarts' professors have against the High Inquisitor?"

"We are, of course, prepared to proceed to the Board of Governors," put in Mr. Lestrange calmly. "But we thought to advise you before taking such a step."

Albus rather doubted the Board of Governors would accord much heed to the son of a notorious, recently escaped Death Eater, Rabastan Lestrange, or to the daughter of Richmond and Nila McKinnon, killed some years ago during the first war (along with Miss McKinnon's grandparents, uncles, and aunts—including Marlene McKinnon, valued member of the first Order of the Phoenix). These two simply did not have the right connections to succeed. Or so Albus had assumed.

"We'll need someone with real credibility," mused Miss McKinnon. "Someone respectable, someone above reproach no matter the political climate. Rich, respected…"

And she and Mr. Lestrange turned to one another, wearing identical grins. "I know just the person," they said simultaneously.

Rather stunned, Albus commented, "It seems neither of you need my help."

His guests sobered at once. "No," agreed Mr. Lestrange. "Elle and I can stand a curse or two. But the students do need your help, Professor. I have it on the best authority that more than one student unwise enough to court Professor Umbridge's displeasure has been forced to use the Blood Quill frequently enough to preclude the possibility of the scars ever fully fading."

"And that," added Miss McKinnon, "definitely falls under violations of the Miranda Act, protecting the rights of Wizarding minors. Unless the Ministry has plans to repeal the Act?"

Albus smiled in spite of himself. The idea that the Ministry would repeal an act created after the abuse, torture, and murder of young, beautiful Miranda Black in the sixteenth century (thus offending the remaining scions of that decadent, wealthy, noble House) was surely absurd. It appeared his guests were intent upon handing him ammunition in the ongoing battle with the blind, dunderheaded Ministry. Interesting, and slightly unexpected: it had been years since a Slytherin student had voluntarily aided him in anything. Yes, Mr. Lestrange and Miss McKinnon were a curious puzzle.

"Thank you for bringing this problem to my attention," he said then, kindness and dismissal equally apparent in his tone. Mr. Lestrange and Miss McKinnon rose at once, and thanked him for his time.

Mr. Lestrange held open the door for Miss McKinnon to pass out, and glanced back at Albus. "I think we understand each other," he smirked. In that moment, he reminded Albus irresistibly of his father—or perhaps his uncle. Curious, how different these little talks with the Lestranges had been.

"I'm sure I don't need to request you both to continue taking care of the younger students…even those not of your own House?" he asked pointedly.

Mr. Lestrange and Miss McKinnon looked insulted. They left haughtily, posture similar and excellent. Yes, mused Albus, a curious pair, Mr. Leo Lestrange and Miss Elle McKinnon. He would give something to know to whom they had referred when they spoke of someone so far above reproach he or she could lend him or herself to a public attack on Dolores Umbridge.

And what was Miss McKinnon's real first name, anyway? He seemed to recall it being longer than the elegant French 'Elle…' Ah! Of course! He smiled to himself. It wasn't really Elle, after all. Her name was Miss Elvendork McKinnon. How absurd! And how typical! Light-hearted Richmond and Nila, naming their daughter Elvendork, after young Mr. Potter's audacious suggestion. Immediately, as it always did, the thought of the Potters brought a sense of guilt. If only they had consented to his own offer to be their Secret-Keeper…Regrets seemed to spring into being around him, as he scanned the shadows lengthening in his office.

Perhaps he wasn't behaving precisely well toward Harry Potter, either…


	17. The Sugar Content of Revenge

**The Sugar Content of Revenge**

"Do you ever think about justice? For your family, I mean; since they were murdered by Death Eaters?" Neville Longbottom asked his companion in a would-be casual voice. They were outside on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, near the lake. In Neville's fist was a crumpled page of newspaper. Spread out, it would have informed the reader of the recent escape of ten high-profile prisoners (all convicted Death Eaters) from Azkaban Prison. It would also have told the reader that these escapes were to placed at the account of one Sirius Black, but both students knew that to be a ludicrous fallacy.

Elle McKinnon gave Neville a sharp look. It occurred to him that she might be angry that he'd brought up her family, but he couldn't bring himself to be sorry; this was information he needed.

"Vengeance, you mean?" Elle asked, her eyes scanning him as though she could read his mind. With a start, Neville remembered that she was a Slytherin and so she probably could; he was surprised to find that this didn't bother him.

"Well…" he shifted uncomfortably. "I suppose, if you want to call it that…"

"I do," she said firmly. There was a pause, during which Neville wondered if she would even answer.

"Honestly?" Elle asked at last. "No, I haven't. Not really. The truth is, it wouldn't be practical. I mean, first I'd have to devote my life and soul to it—because otherwise how could I be sure I was good enough to beat them? I don't even know who 'they' are, after all—not specifically. They could be dead for all I know. And supposing I found them; supposing I succeeded; then what? There's no going back from vengeance. It's a vicious cycle. I'd probably turn into a chain-smoking vigilante.

"Also. By all accounts, my family was so Light that if I did give in to revenge I'd probably finish the job I started by getting Sorted into Slytherin, and completely break their hearts."

There was another pause while they both thought this over. Neville couldn't help feeling that his own situation was different, and that sometimes vengeance was justified, but he didn't think he could argue with Elle's logic. He tried to picture elegant, black-haired, athletic Elle as a chain-smoking vigilante…and winced.

Elle studied him; yes, that had definitely been no idle question. Not that she had ever believed it was, of course; there was a fine line between justice and vengeance, and it was hardly the stuff of casual conversation.

Elle decided to confront Neville about it directly, since he'd already revealed as much of a plan as he undoubtedly had. "If you're thinking what I think you're thinking…" she paused, considering how best to word what she meant to say. "Neville, Leo's relatives are evil. Really, really, evil. Well—not his mother. She's great, actually; he's really lucky to have her. And from what he's told me, I think his grandparents aren't evil—snobbish, but that applies to more people than you'd think. The point is, his father is a bad man, and he's going to have to deal with that someday. But…there are some things even the truest friendships don't recover from."

"So, let me get this straight," said Neville, torn between laughter and annoyance, "you're warning me off the Lestranges?"

"Of course not," murmured Elle, the picture of innocence. "But, if I were, I would only be warning you away from Leo's father. An uncle is quite a different thing, you know, and as for an aunt by marriage—pshaw!" She snapped her fingers. "No problem."

"Why, you think I could take Bellatrix?" Neville asked, surprised but flattered.

"I don't know," said Elle truthfully. "But I'm willing to make it a project."

"You mean you'll help me?" Neville asked excitedly. Then he frowned. "What about all that stuff about vengeance stealing one's soul, etcetera?"

'Well, it is your soul," Elle pointed out. "Besides, you know what they say: you want something done right…do it yourself."

Later, as they walked back to the castle (Neville had skived off class in order to pull himself together after the news that his parents' torturers had escaped; Elle just had a free period), Neville asked a question about something he'd been wondering for some time. Ever since Leo Lestrange and Elle McKinnon had first befriended him in the middle of his second year, in fact.

"Elle? What's really going on with you and Leo?"

She didn't pretend to misunderstand him. "You know what, Neville?"

"I know, I know: none of my business."

"It's not that, darling; I just reckon you've had enough truth for one day."


	18. Damsel in Distress

**Damsel in Distress**

"I've come to beg asylum," said the woman standing on the doorstep of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Molly Weasley stared at her in numb shock. At first glance, the woman looked barely out of her teens, but upon closer examination Molly decided that she had been misled by the woman's delicate features and innocent, wide-eyed expression. In fact, the stranger was at least thirty, if not more. Her hair was a nondescript brown, and her eyes were also brown. The woman was both petite and compact; her figure would have been more elegant if she were a little taller, Molly decided. She was dressed with all the frills and furbelows of a rich woman, but the colors she wore were sedate.

At length, the stranger's eyebrows quirked upward slightly, and Molly regained sufficient control over her voice to utter the one word, "_What_?"

"If you would be kind enough to allow us to enter, Molly, I will explain," said a calm voice in a tone of mild reproof, from out of sight of the door. Molly jumped.

"Professor Dumb—" she began.

"Molly," Professor Albus Dumbledore said patiently. "I will explain inside."

Wordlessly, Mrs. Weasley stepped back. The strange woman swept indoors, followed by Albus Dumbledore.

"Filth! Blood traitors! Scum!" screamed a full-length portrait on the wall.

"Oh, no!" moaned Molly Weasley distractedly.

"Mrs. Black, I presume?" said the stranger, halting before the portrait and sweeping a magnificent curtsey. The woman in the portrait was so surprised she stopped mid-rant. For the first time, Molly found herself in some sympathy with Walburga Black.

"Shut up, you old hag—" began a strikingly handsome man, clattering down the stairs two at a time. He paused mid-sentence, one foot suspended in air, staring at the scene below.

The strange woman turned. "I hope that was not to _my _address?" she commented lightly.

"Of course not," said the handsome man automatically. "Talking to my mother. Who are you?"

"Leea," said the strange woman. "And you must be Sirius Black. You look just like your cousin."

"Mrs. Lestrange will be staying here for awhile," Dumbledore informed Molly and Sirius complacently.

"Mrs._ Lestrange_?" demanded Molly. "Albus, are you sure—"

"What do you mean, I look like my cousin?" Sirius looked affronted, as though usually people refrained from noticing his obvious Black facial features in his presence. "You know my cousin? You mean Bellatrix, don't you? How do you know Bellatrix? Wait—did you just say_ Lestrange_?"

"Yes, I'm waiting to hear this," said Molly, folding her arms.

"Mrs. Lestrange came to me requesting asylum for herself and her son—" began Dumbledore.

"Son?" exclaimed Sirius. "_Son?"_

"My son Leo is completing his seventh year at Hogwarts School," said Leea coolly.

"—because of the recent escape of certain high-profile Death Eaters. She believes, and I agree, that the other Lestranges may try to contact her son, and that this would be detrimental to his educational career. To say the least. Therefore, the Order of the Phoenix has granted Mrs. Lestrange and young Mr. Lestrange asylum, for so long as they choose to avail themselves of it," explained Dumbledore with his usual aplomb. "And now I have things to attend to. I am sure you will both make Mrs. Lestrange welcome."

"Of course, Albus," said Mrs. Weasley, regaining command over herself. It occurred to neither Molly nor Sirius to point out that, since Dumbledore had unilaterally decided to grant the Lestranges asylum, it had not, in fact, been a committee decision on the part of the Order of the Phoenix.

Dumbledore, eyes twinkling, made his adieux. Mrs. Black recovered herself and started screaming again, but Sirius silenced her with one efficient swipe of his wand. He held out his arm to Leea Lestrange, saying quietly, "Let's adjourn to someplace more comfortable, where we can talk."

"Such a place exists?" Leea asked innocently.

"We'll go down to the kitchen," said Molly firmly. That story might have been enough to satisfy Professor Dumbledore, but she wanted more details. As it stood, she couldn't understand why anyone would believe this Lestrange woman. What, she just happened to show up right after Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan Lestrange escaped from Azkaban to join You-Know-Who's followers and Dumbledore didn't suspect a trap? After all (as everyone knew) you couldn't trust a Slytherin. Or a Lestrange, most likely.

"So," Sirius asked, once they were cozily ensconced in the kitchen. Molly had gotten them each a Butterbeer. She felt in need of it. "What's your story?"

Leea looked surprised. "But Professor Dumbledore told you my story."

Sirius waved this aside. "He told us you wanted asylum because you're afraid your husband will—what? Try and corrupt your son?"

"Well, that's true," said Leea.

"But why now?"

Leea gave him a look. "Because my husband has been in Azkaban since 1981."

"That's not what I mean," said Sirius impatiently. Molly sat watching them, eyes narrowed. "There has to be more to it. Why do you really want asylum?"

"Protecting my son isn't enough?" demanded Leea. "If it were just me, I would stay and wait for my husband to come looking for me, and drag me into the Death Eater lifestyle again. Only it'll be worse now, I expect. The Dark Lord won't be pleased with everything that's changed since he was last in power. Perhaps I would leave the country."

"So you fear Voldemort," said Sirius, with the air of one adding yet another clue to a puzzle he was trying to solve.

Leea looked at him straightly. "Who doesn't? You know, I read in the paper that you were some sort of evil traitor. I marvel that anyone could have believed it for a moment. No one in their right mind could mistake _you_ for a Death Eater."

Sirius beamed. "That might be the best compliment anyone's ever paid me."

Molly snorted. This was ridiculous! The way Sirius was fascinated by this girl—this little slip of a woman. Didn't he have any standards? Mrs. Lestrange, for Godric's sake!

"Well," smiled Leea. "Just don't ever try to be a spy in the enemy camp, all right? You wouldn't last long."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," said Sirius sarcastically. But he said it with a rueful grin. Leea Lestrange was an extraordinary witch. He could tell already.


	19. Early Risers

**Early Risers**

Leo Lestrange strode briskly toward the village of Hogsmeade on a cold March morning. The air around him seemed crystallized with early morning light, and his hair and robes looked especially black against a grey and brown early spring landscape. He and the girl beside him, Elle McKinnon, seemed the only moving creatures in the world that morning, although Leo knew this was an illusion. Other students no doubt followed them—Hogsmeade weekends were still to be treasured, after all, in spite of the increasingly uncomfortable political climate—and the village they walked toward would be filled with activity in a few short hours. Strictly speaking, of course, they weren't supposed to leave for the village so early, but as Slytherin seventh years enjoying the favor of the High Inquisitor, Leo and Elle were usually free to do as they pleased.

"You believed the bit about Bertha Jorkins and Barty Crouch Sr.?" he asked Elle, breaking a long, companionable silence.

"I believed every word of that detailed interview," Elle replied, smiling. "Really, it's quite shockingly gullible of me, isn't it?"

Leo shrugged. "It can't be the whole story," he argued.

"Because it's too fantastic?"

"Because it's too impersonal," Leo explained. "How did he escape? I mean, really—'my wand did something weird and I managed to summon the Cup, which was still a Portkey' just doesn't cover successfully escaping the Dark Lord."

Elle shrugged. "It's just another the-great-Harry-Potter-miraculously-does-something-stupid-and-escapes-looking-like-the-hero stunt. What difference does it make?"

Leo glared at her. "It always makes a difference," he said fiercely. Didn't Elle understand how important this was? If he knew how Potter had managed to escape, it might give him important insight into how he and his mother could avoid the Dark Lord. Of course, Leo thought wryly, acknowledging the hole in his own reasoning, Potter didn't actually _avoid_ the Dark Lord—in fact, if he'd been anyone else, he would hardly have survived his first year, let alone his latest escape. But what made Potter so special? There didn't seem to be any satisfactory data on the point.

The two friends walked the rest of the way to the village in silence. Elle left to buy some ink, and Leo found himself strolling past the Shrieking Shack. There was a mystery there, too, of course, but today it couldn't hold his attention.

The Three Broomsticks presented an intriguing prospect; he strolled casually toward it, passing a Hufflepuff third-year clutching a Zonko's bag and a young, laughing couple.

A flash of light cut through his line of sight just ahead of him and was gone. Leo stared, wondering if he'd imagined the curse—if curse it was. Could he have seen what he'd thought he saw?

He wasn't left in doubt for very long.

The young couple he'd seen screamed as more streams of light flared in their direction. The Hufflepuff, rather to Leo's surprise, had the sense to hide behind a convenient stone bench. Leo ducked into the Three Broomsticks—his first thought was to find cover, and he ought to warn people, he supposed. As strange as it seemed, given the Dark Lord's desire for discretion, what else could this be but a Death Eater attack?

No one was in the bar this early in the morning—in fact, he wasn't sure it was open yet, now that he thought of it. Rosmerta's eyes were bleary and tired and the only part of her he could see, other than the top of her head, from where she peered at him behind the bar.

"Rosmerta? There's something going on," Leo said, in a colossal understatement. "Can you enhance the wards around this place?"

Wide-eyed, Rosmerta shook her head.

At that moment, the door behind Leo swung open. Leo whirled around and ducked instinctively—but the man confronting him lowered his wand as soon as their eyes met.

The man was reed-thin, tall, but stooped, as though he found straightening his spine to its full length too fatiguing. His skin was stretched taught over his bones. His eyes were dark and impenetrable, and his hair was a tangled, dirty mess. He wore a plain black robe. His fingers curled around his wand turned white with strain.

"Hello, Father," said Leo quietly.

Rosmerta peered over the countertop again, eyebrows raised.

"Leo?" asked Rabastan Lestrange, squinting at his son. "Is that you?"

"What are you doing here?" Leo demanded. Now that the shock had worn off, he was furious.

"Just…It was Rodolphus's idea…" his father said slowly. Honestly, he looked so zonked out Leo would have suspected him of a mallowsweet addiction if he hadn't known that fourteen years in Azkaban could hardly be very good for the soul.

"How many of you are here?" Leo asked urgently.

"Just me, Roddy, and Dolohov," his father said, shrugging. "Kind of a last-minute thing, after Bella chucked Roddy out of headquarters—poor guy is _whipped_—we're supposed to be laying low, but after that lovers' tiff, I should say he's got something to prove…What are you doing here? Where's your mother?"

"I go to school here, Father," Leo said, rolling his eyes eloquently. He deliberately didn't answer his father's last question—he even refrained from thinking the words 'Order of the Phoenix,' 'Grimmauld Place,' 'Sirius Black,' and 'Dumbledore's protection,' just in case. "Where, _exactly_, are Uncle Rodolphus and Dolohov?" He really didn't want to get involved in whatever quarrel Uncle Rodolphus and Aunt Bellatrix might have gotten into, but he couldn't stand by and let his father, Uncle Rodolphus, and Dolohov, who, according to the papers, was particularly vicious, trash Hogsmeade, hurt anyone, or be killed by the inevitable Aurors. Always assuming the Aurors got there in time—for such an elite band of Wizarding bad-guy-catchers, they were frequently late. At least Aunt Bellatrix wasn't here. Still, what if the Dark Lord showed up to collect his erring henchmen? It would be cold comfort to reflect that Harry Potter was safely banned from trips to the village _then_.

Leo's father gestured vaguely toward the door, still staring at Leo in fascination. Before Leo could (reluctantly) dash outside and confront Uncle Roddy, who might be expected to spare him for further study on the basis of their relationship, and Dolohov, who would have no reason to do so, the door opened again, and Elle, breathless, cheeks chapped from the cold and carrying a small shopping bag, rushed in. She was at his side in a moment, staring at his father. Leo waited with outward calm as two disparate parts of his life collided. _No Neville and no Aunt Bellatrix, that's something_, he told himself.

Elle had seen the dancing streams of light and guessed their inevitable cause, but she had no idea how many of them there were, and the thought that they were probably torturing innocent people at that very moment was nagging at her with the persistence of Cousin Sarah-Louise's commands—unpleasant, and very real.

She saw Leo's shadow through the dark windows of the Three Broomsticks—it was hard to distinguish in the gloom, but she knew it was him—and she crossed the street, keeping a close watch on all the shadows that could conceal Death Eaters, and gained the comparative safety of the bar without incident. Without conscious thought, she was at Leo's side, staring at a man she instantly recognized from his picture in the paper. She drew her breath in sharply.

"Who's this?" asked the man. "Your girlfriend?" Elle couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. She waited for Leo's reply, not trusting herself to speak.

Leo gave an almost imperceptible sigh. Elle saw it. "Father, this is Elle. Elle, this is my father."

Rabastan Lestrange inclined his head politely, and Elle fought the desire to laugh at the ridiculousness of her situation. She won. She murmured something indistinct in response to the introduction, glancing down at the well-scuffed floor as though in modesty. She couldn't bring herself to bend her knees in the most basic form of the curtsy of respect an elder, pureblood man deserved, according to her classmates' families and her etiquette book. She couldn't even say 'nice to meet you,' or some such innocuous phrase. After all, there was only so much even a Slytherin could do in this situation, when her entire family had been murdered by Death Eaters. And there Leo's father was, looking like he'd spent a century in Azkaban, instead of fourteen short years.

"Pureblood?" Rabastan Lestrange shot the question at Elle. She almost flinched.

"Yes, she's pureblood," Leo said quickly, "But moving on—or rather, back to our previous conversational topic—you said Uncle Rodolphus and this Dolohov are where, exactly?"

Only two others? Elle crossed her fingers in her pocket. That was better than she'd dared hope. She and Leo could take three—if one left out the whole family-issues problem and if Leo's Aunt Bellatrix was a no-show.

Leo's father shrugged. Leo moved in close, keeping Elle behind him. "You can call them here," he whispered.

Rabastan blanched. "Don't get me wrong, I'd love for them to meet you, kid, but—no way. _He_ would know. _He_ always knows. We aren't really supposed to b—"

"Got it," said Leo. "Stay here, don't go anywhere, no hurting innocent bystanders. I'll be right back." He turned to Elle, and she knew what he was asking.

"I should go with you," she said softly. "Leo—Dolohov? I don't like the sound of that…"

"No," Leo whispered. "Stay here, guard him, I'll back before you know it." With a swirl of black robes, he was gone.

Elle cast a nonverbal _Expelliarmus_ on Rabastan. "Hey!" he yelled.

Elle shrugged, giving him her best predatory grin. After all, he served the Dark Lord—maybe all he needed was a good show of authority. "You'll get it back when _we_ decide," she told him firmly.

Oddly, this seemed not to discomfit him. "So," he said casually, "you and my son, huh? What's your surname?"

Elle lifted her chin. If she didn't tell him, he'd assume they'd been lying, and she wasn't pureblood. And if she told him a fake name, he would presumably be able to guess, having been raised by parents who cared about such things. "McKinnon," she said.

"Ah," Rabastan murmured thoughtfully. "McKinnon, eh? Bet you'd love to know who killed your parents, wouldn't you?"

Elle didn't reply, merely giving him back stare for stare.

"Some of them are dead now, of course," he mused. "Still, you might be able to find the others—if you're interested. You and my son could hunt them down together…who knows, maybe even _He _would be impressed…_He_ still accepts recruits, you know. You'd be doing justice to your blood, avenging your family…Think you could do it?"

Elle flushed. _Could_ she do it, well, of course, if she decided it was really worth it, and if she had Leo to guard her back…_Should _she do it was another matter. If anything had been lacking in her refusal to go looking for vengeance before, the thought that the Dark Lord would appreciate it, maybe even approve her, was the final straw. She could never become what her family had fought so hard against. She would die first—and maybe it would still come to that.

She took a deep breath, told herself white lies weren't really sins, and said coolly, "I'll think about it." Which wasn't even really a lie—the probability was it would keep her awake nights, just to avoid the nightmares…

"Good." Rabastan Lestrange grinned at her, and for a moment, she could see what he must have been like before Azkaban—arrogant, handsome, and at ease with himself and the world. She could see how attractive he must have been, and she wrenched her thoughts away from that. Just because he had Leo's bone structure was no reason to forget that he was a vicious, casual killer who apparently thought torturing people for fun was a pastime worth arousing the Dark Lord's ire. Weren't they supposed to be in hiding?

Luckily, at that moment, Leo appeared, with both his Uncle Rodolphus and the infamous Dolohov in tow. Elle spared a thought for his brilliance in locating them and convincing them to come back with him, before they got down to business.

"So," Leo said sternly, looking each of them in the eye in turn. Elle held her breath, because Dolohov looked mad as fire and Rodolphus distinctly sulky. "You will all return to whatever hideout you currently possess, or rather share, since cramped living quarters seem to be part of your problem, and with any luck, the Dark Lord will never know you were here."

"I suppose we should thank you," said Rodolphus sourly. "You're eminently practical, nephew—must be your mother's influence."

"How is she?" Rabastan asked, searching Leo's face desperately for some clue.

"Fine," Leo said shortly, his mouth becoming a thin line. "Now go, before any stray Aurors arrive!"

Sullenly, the three Death Eaters Disapparated. Elle let out the breath she'd been holding. "Wow," she told Leo, "I can't believe you did that! How did you convince them to leave without burning down the village or something?"

Leo shrugged. "It wasn't anything, really—they'd started worrying about what the Dark Lord would think if they were captured and told everyone he was really back, or even if they got their pictures in the press again, practically as soon as they arrived. I simply pointed out to them how much easier it would be to leave now, without loss of limb. And, since I'm family, they weren't losing face by going along."

"So…" Elle asked, "why were they here? And did they hurt anyone?"

Leo's face looked suddenly older, a shadow passing across it. "No one seriously. I don't say they wouldn't have…I had to let them Obliviate the relevant people so it wouldn't get out that they were here."

"What do mean? You have to tell someone—you have to tell Dumbledore!" Rosmerta exclaimed, getting up from behind the bar. Apparently she'd decided it was finally safe enough.

"No, we don't," said Leo firmly, still looking much older than seventeen.

"Dumbledore, maybe," conceded Elle. "But Gryffindors aren't usually very discreet, and if the press hears about this after you told them—"

"Exactly," nodded Leo. "Not a big deal; Dumbledore doesn't need to know."

Elle looked at him curiously. "So that's why you didn't ask where headquarters is, or how many Death Eaters You-Know-Who actually has, or what your Aunt Bellatrix was actually so mad about, or what You-Know-Who's plans actually are, isn't it? If we knew that, we'd have to tell."

"Well…" Leo shrugged. "Yes."

Elle grinned. "Sneaky."

"Be that as it may," Rosmerta told them sternly, "you have a duty to report this! Dumbledore needs to know! You can't just let three Death Eaters attack the village and not say anything! The Ministry—"

"—would love to send Dementors, too late, to the village and frighten away your customers!" pointed out Leo, with a flagrant disregard for the fact that the Dementors weren't bothering to search for his father, his uncle Rodolphus, his aunt Bellatrix, and those other homicidal maniacs who the Dark Lord had broken out of prison. Elle smirked appreciatively.

"Good point…" Rosmerta said thoughtfully. "Fudge loves scaring away just enough people from my bar to make me hover on having to close down! Still…not telling would be wrong."

"Not really," Elle said, shrugging. "I mean, sure, Dumbledore would probably feel he should be informed, but he feels he ought to be informed about everything, even who's meeting who in which broom closet as reported during nocturnal prefect patrol. Which, really, is private, don't you think?"

Rosmerta looked confused for a moment. "Dumbledore wants to know who's snogging whom in which broom closet?" she asked blankly. Then her expression cleared. "He must be checking, you know, for disciplinary purposes."

Elle doubted that, but she didn't say anything. "Okay, but still—nosy. You know?"

"Promise not to tell?" Leo asked. If he'd been an innocent Hufflepuff or a sniveling cry-Gryffindor, it would have been begging. As it was, he looked ready to hex Rosmerta if she didn't agree.

Rosmerta stared back at Leo and Elle, who stood shoulder-to-shoulder, the former looking stern and dangerous, and the latter adorable and sweet. "Fine," she said with a sigh, her shoulders slumping. "You two are too much!"

"So," Elle asked casually, after the two of them had left the bar, leaving Rosmerta disapproving but compliant. "What do you want to do now?"

"Elle," Leo said seriously. He looked down at her, expression earnest. "I'm so glad you're all right—I didn't mean to put you in any danger."

"It's no big," Elle said at once. "Don't worry about me."

"Then thanks," Leo said softly, "for having my back."

"Anytime."


	20. Tame Slytherins

**Tame Slytherins**

"Oh, thank Godric," breathed Elle McKinnon as she and her best friend and co-prefect, Leo Lestrange, leaned against the wall behind a statue of the two-headed god Janus, catching their breath.

"Godric?" inquired Leo rather absently. He was listening intently for sounds of pursuit. When the house-elf had walked into the Room of Requirement, site of months of secret meetings, Leo had known the game was up. Whisking Elle out the door ahead of the crowds and up two flights of stairs and along three corridors, he'd found them this convenient niche in which to relax for a moment. He had felt a brief impulse to attempt to save their compatriots—Dumbledore's Army had grown on him in the last few months, and he was quite fond of a few of its members—but his innate shrewdness had forbade such rash action. They were all probably fine—and if they weren't, what had they expected, joining an illegal Defense Against the Dark Arts group headed by the polarizing Harry Potter?

"I suppose all those Gryffindors must be rubbing off on me," whispered Elle. She couldn't think how she had come to use such a blatantly Gryffindor exclamation. In fact, she was finding it difficult to think at all—Leo was so close she could have counted his eyelashes. With an effort, she refrained from doing just that. Practical! She must be practical!

Had she but known it, Leo was having similar concentration difficulties. He'd forgotten just how small the space behind Janus really was. He closed his eyes in order to avoid the tantalizing sight of Elle's chest, rising and falling as she got control over her breathing. It didn't help. He could still smell that unique fragrance his senses identified with Elle—

"So," Leo said hurriedly, opening his eyes and gazing into her brilliant blue ones (focus, Lestrange!). "I think I hear the clatter of Inquisitorial feet. You ready for this?"

"Of course," said Elle, desperate not to let her disappointment show. They couldn't keep hiding in this extremely cramped space? "The best place to hide is in plain sight," she said briskly, preparing to move out from behind the statue. "Let's do it."

Leo and Elle squeezed out of their hiding place and began strolling along in their best prefects-on-patrol style. It wasn't long before they ran into Professor Umbridge herself, hauling the famous Harry Potter. His glasses were broken, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable and worried. Still, he seemed to be the only truant Professor Umbridge had found.

"Professor Umbridge!" Leo and Elle said together, not a trace of guilt in either voice.

"What's going on?" asked Elle innocently, opening her eyes wide, so she resembled a sweet, thirteen-year-old Hufflepuff.

"Is there a problem?" Leo asked, pitching his voice low and confident.

Harry looked from one to the other of them in some surprise (and not a little dismay) but had the good sense (or despairing apathy) not to say anything and spoil their act.

"Ah, Mr. Lestrange, Miss McKinnon. Where have you been?" trilled Professor Umbridge girlishly. She was clearly slightly annoyed, but her satisfaction at capturing Potter was such that no suspicion of the suave Leo (some sort of nephew of generous Lucius Malfoy) or the elegant Elle (such a sweet girl) entered her head.

"We were in the east wing," said Elle impatiently (yet politely).

"Do you…" Leo began diffidently. Looking the epitome of the clever, respectful student, he allowed the rest of his sentence to be understood. Without appearing vulgarly eager to get involved in disciplining a group of rebellious, Ministry-hating Harry Potter fans, he signified his willingness to assist Professor Umbridge with this or any other extracurricular project.

"Well…" said Professor Umbridge, considering Leo. "Perhaps I could use some assistance. Potter is a dangerous criminal, after all—plotting to overthrow the Ministry! But no match for my Inquisitorial Squad, of course. Come along, you two—and bring Potter."

As Leo and Elle closed in on him, one on either side, Harry knew a brief moment of panic. Were these the same people he had taught for months? They seemed completely different. In a few minutes, they had transformed from members of Dumbledore's Army (the Weasley twins called them 'tame Slytherins') into the Inquisitorial Squad's model students. Harry did not care for the change. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that Umbridge must've found out about the DA _somehow_, and what did he really know about Leo and Elle, anyway? It wouldn't be the first time Neville's bright ideas had gotten him into trouble. Probably Sirius was right, and you could never trust a Slytherin.

Leo sighed inwardly. Harry was glaring at him. How typical! Slytherins always got the blame for everything. _Elle?_ he asked silently. She stiffened slightly, but didn't look his way.

_Leo?_

_Harry thinks we're the traitors_, he informed her sadly.

_Oh, unjust!_ she thought angrily. _Everyone__ is going to think we did it!_

_It probably doesn't help that we got those intern jobs at the Ministry based on Professor Umbridge's recommendations_, thought Leo fairly.

_I don't care!_ fumed Elle. _Besides, no one knows about that! We do have some experience in covering these things up! This is so typical! Just typical!_

_Who do you think really did it?_ Leo asked to distract her.

_Marietta Edgecombe_, she thought promptly.

_The curly-haired Ravenclaw? That's what I thought. Much too prissy for an illegal extracurricular._

_Still…_Elle mused. _She stayed for six months—why now?_

_Professor Umbridge got to her. Or she reckoned she'd learnt as much as she was going to from Harry_, thought Leo cynically.

_That's awful! What a bitch_, Elle thought disgustedly.

Leo and Elle continued, periodically, to talk silently in each other's minds on their way to the Headmaster's office. Both chafed at the situation—Harry spent his time glaring at them, and they were hurt that he didn't trust them more (though neither would ever admit it). Harry was hurt as well—he felt like a fool—always so eager to trust. Yet, honestly, Leo's progress with the Patronus Charm had been excellent, and Elle had gotten into a heated discussion of jinxes with Hermione last meeting. The surprising moment came when the point of contention was settled in Elle's favor, thanks to_ Jinxes for the Jinxed_. How could all that have been an act?

Harry's chagrin upon realizing, in Dumbledore's office, that Marietta Edgecombe was responsible for Umbridge's excellent information was palpable. Of course, when he thought about it, Umbridge had seemed surprised to see Leo and Elle…Surely if they were hand-in-glove with her she wouldn't need to ask where they had been.

It was then that Dumbledore told Harry to deny everything about the DA, and he not unnaturally forgot all about the DA's tame Slytherins.

Dumbledore's admission of guilt only took Leo aback for a moment. It was typical chivalrous Gryffindor behavior. Headmaster takes the blame for violent anti-Ministry group, Fudge and Umbridge much too preoccupied to examine list of names beneath controversial title, or to give Harry Potter more than a slap on the wrist. It seemed a clumsy, if practical plan to Leo.

Still, when Professor Dumbledore swooped out of the room on the tail of his pet phoenix, Leo had to admit he was cool.

Fudge shooed all four of them—Leo, Elle, Harry, and Marietta—out of the office. No one said anything until Marietta departed in the direction of the Hospital Wing, robe clutched around her face.

"Confess: you thought we did it," accused Elle.

"What difference does it make?" Harry asked bitterly. "Dumbledore's gone, and it's all my fault!"

"No offense, Potter," said Leo drily, "But it does make a difference to _us_. Besides, it's not your fault. Chang should have realized Edgecombe would never have the guts to defy the Ministry."

"Plus, in a perfect world, there would be no Umbridge," put in Elle.

Harry nodded. He still felt guilty—for getting Dumbledore kicked out and for the rage he'd felt when Dumbledore had left without so much as looking at him—but it was nice, having company.

"Don't give up, Potter," said Leo, halting beside a flight of stairs. "We're all behind you."

Leo hooked his arm through Elle's and whisked her down the stairs. Harry watched them go, feeling a little of the weight he'd been carrying around inside lift. Then he turned and headed for Gryffindor Tower, toward Ron and Hermione.


	21. Questions

**Questions**

Which witch? That was the question.

Leo Lestrange scanned the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. It was lunchtime, so almost the entire student body was present. The seventh-year Slytherin girls sat together, all beautiful and all rather intimidating. Leo refrained from studying them too long; although they were quite attractive, particularly his best friend Elle McKinnon, that wasn't the point of this little exercise. He passed on to the sixth-year girls, who also, conveniently, sat in a clump. But no—Honor Justinovitch was both cute and smart, but even that wasn't exactly right. Too smart could be a problem, and he wanted someone who could keep an eye on Potter.

Which brought him to the fifth-years. Pansy Parkinson? Too political—and so indiscreet. Millicent Bulstrode? His reputation would take a hit, and he suspected she was another one who was too smart for her own good. Phaedra Grant? Too weird and flaky—he would never know if she were telling the truth or making it up as she went along. Daphne Greengrass? Too cynical—she'd see through his plan eventually, and that could get very awkward.

Of course! His eyes narrowed. Tracey Davis!

Tracey Davis was Pansy Parkinson's quietest, mousiest roommate. She was smart enough that Pansy probably copied her homework, but not smart enough to be top of her class (Hermione Granger) or even second (Padma Patil). Her family was pureblood, and adequately wealthy without having pockets as deep as 'Uncle' Lucius's. Her father worked at the Ministry of Magic, her mother was a junior member of the Tanith Darnell Memorial Society for Witches of Quality…that sort of thing.

Physically, Tracey was thin and mousy, hair dark brown, eyes grey-brown, and skin light brown. She wore her hair long and straight. Her nose was straight and ordinary, and her mouth was a thin line. That mouth made Leo wonder—it seemed pinched in perpetual disapproval, somehow. Or anger. Repressed anger could be dangerous. Honestly, that mouth was the most interesting thing about Tracey.

"Davis?" Leo said casually, once he'd reached her section of the Slytherin table. Pansy Parkinson stopped mid-Potter-rant (it was always something) and stared at him, and the other girls blinked at him in a relieved sort of way. "May I have a word?"

"Sure," Tracey said, surprised. Pansy, Phaedra, Millicent, and Daphne stared as Leo led Tracey into the Entrance Hall and down a temporarily deserted corridor. "Lestrange, what's going on?" Tracey asked.

"Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Seventh-Year Formal Wizarding Dance?" Leo asked, kissing Tracey's hand in fine dramatic style.

Tracey stared, blushed, started to giggle nervously before remembering she didn't do that sort of thing, stared, and finally said quietly, "Okay."

"You're taking Tracey Davis to the Seventh-Year Formal?" Elle asked in disbelief. It was after class, and she and Leo were walking by the lake.

"It's all part of my plan," Leo explained patiently. "We're leaving this year, right? So we need some way to keep an eye on Potter, you know, because he and Dumbledore are at the center of whatever the Dark Lord does nowadays. I know I don't have to tell _you_ that knowledge is power."

"No, you don't," admitted Elle. "But we have Neville for that, and you don't have to date _him_."

"Right, right," agreed Leo distractedly. "But see, we also need the Slytherin perspective, because this war is already polarizing the two Houses. Slytherin is not, in fact, synonymous with pure evil, but try telling the Gryffindors that."

"I know," Elle said sourly. "But that doesn't mean you have to date _Tracey Davis_. Why don't I just vamp Draco Malfoy, if you think it's that important? If you can do it, I can do it."

"Malfoy has no clue what everyone else in the school thinks, he's much too self-involved to be a proper observer," Leo muttered. "Although, by all means, don't let me stop you. I'm sure you would make an excellent _Older Witch_."

"And you, how far are you going to go to convince her all you want is a little…_romance_?" snarled Elle.

Leo glared back. "Far enough."

Elle regretted the argument—Leo really was trying to do the right thing, she knew, or at least the smart thing—but she refused to believe Tracey Davis would prove useful in the fight against evil.

She thought about going through with her threat and taking Draco Malfoy to the dance, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do so. He was good-looking enough, she supposed, but fifteen-year-old boys were so immature. Really, she, Cho Chang, Angelina Johnson, and Brianna Bibble had definitely had the right idea when they had expressly forbidden (or diplomatically advised against) their respective seventh-year girls from asking Harry Potter to the dance. It simply wouldn't have been fair to the poor child—not to mention all the seventh-year boys his reputation alone would be showing up.

Instead, Elle went with Adrian Pucey, just as friends. He was in love with Laurabeth Mulciber, the only girl allowed to even sub for the Slytherin Quidditch team. She was small, fast, and muscular—and totally uninterested in the Seeker position, which was lucky because she was in the year below Draco Malfoy and he wasn't giving it up as long as Potter was Seeker for Gryffindor. Laurabeth was interested in Chaser, but versatile enough to play Beater or Keeper if necessary. Elle thought it was just sexism that prevented Lloyd Montague, who'd been on the team for five years now and Captain for two of them, from bumping either Charles Warrington or Adrian down to alternate so Laurabeth could have a spot on the team. Leo was playing Keeper this year, after Miles Bletchley had graduated, so Adrian had his old position back. Montague refused to get rid of Crabbe and Goyle, neither of whom seemed to know one end of a broom from the other. Elle had never gone out for the Quidditch team because it was so clearly an old boys' group. First Flint, then Montague…she hoped whoever was Captain next gave Laurabeth a proper chance.

Adrian had two topics of conversation: Laurabeth, and Quidditch. The two were related, so Elle had an even harder time getting a word in edgewise. She wore a deep red dress that would have looked sophisticated on a witch in her thirties, and pulled her long black hair up in an elegant twist. It took her hardly any time at all to get ready, and Adrian's eyes still widened when he saw her. Then he segued directly into how gorgeous Laurabeth was and how tragic it was that she wasn't coming to the dance. He would have asked her, Elle knew, if Laurabeth hadn't told him, in full earshot of the entire Quidditch team and everyone who'd come out to watch the practice, that she would never, ever, EVER sleep with him. She finished by calling his overworked hairstyle stupid, thus adding insult to injury. Adrian steered clear of this embarrassing topic, but only just.

The dance was held in the Great Hall, of course, quite late. It was not, strictly speaking, a faculty-condoned event, although Dumbledore would probably have said a few flowery words to begin the dancing if he had been present. As it was, Umbridge simpered and said how lovely it was to see young people enjoying themselves, as though she'd never heard of love triangles or secret trysts. Then, thank Salazar, she left.

Elle saw Leo and Tracey, who wore black, and immediately dragged Adrian onto the dance floor. He performed the steps of the dance with ease, she with elegance and grace. Elle hoped Leo was watching every minute.

She danced with all the other seventh-year Slytherin boys, and also David Stebbins and Hildebrandt Bradley, the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw seventh-year prefects. She did not dance with Freddie-Mack.

Her cousin spent his time ogling all the Gryffindor girls present, and quite a few of the Ravenclaws (he wasn't quite brave enough to approach any of Elle's roommates) before withdrawing to a secluded corner with a giggling Hufflepuff. Elle watched him leave the dance floor with a strange mix of disdain and relief.

"May I have this dance, fair lady Elle?" Leo asked, bowing. Adrian got out of the way, and went to confer with Tracey about Laurabeth and what sort of gift she might possibly refrain from throwing back in his face.

Elle didn't say anything, just looked back at Leo. Sometimes, he was entirely unfathomable.

He took her in his arms, and they swayed and stepped to the gently mournful music. Elle, still looking into those mysterious dark eyes, decided that maybe it didn't really matter who went to the dance with who. They were together, that was the important thing.

Still, as a couple (which they most emphatically were _not_) they clearly had bad luck with school-sponsored dances.


	22. Council of War

**Council of War**

"I'm glad Professor Dumbledore's back," Elle McKinnon told her best friend in the world, Leo Lestrange. The two of them were on the Hogwarts grounds, sitting opposite one another, backs against the two trunks of a twin-tree. "It just wouldn't feel right, graduating without him."

"No," agreed Leo absently, flipping through the _Daily Prophet_. Lazily, Elle noted the way the summer sun brought out brown highlights in his black hair. Ordinarily, one would never have been able to see them. How like him, Elle mused—he was filled with hidden depths.

"Ministry's warmed up to Potter again," Leo informed her. "And it looks like my esteemed relatives, having escaped Azkaban, were foolish enough to allow themselves to be sent back there—with the exception of intrepid Aunt Bellatrix, of course."

Elle didn't know what to say. It was true that Leo's father, Rabastan, and his uncle Rodolphus Lestrange had once more been sent to Azkaban after the fracas in the Ministry of Magic's Hall of Prophecy (_such _an unimaginative name) and she couldn't begin to guess how painful it must be to Leo—having such notoriously evil relatives, trying to convince everyone he wasn't a younger facsimile of the same…Still, she couldn't help feeling, on the whole, that the more Death Eaters who stayed in Azkaban, far away from innocent potential victims, the better.

"The war is coming," said Leo. Elle nodded. It was hard to imagine it now—a sunny, peaceful day at school where the most dangerous thing on the horizon was the inevitable moment when Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, would read out the names of this year's graduating seventh years and once more reveal Elle's hated first name…"McKinnon, Elvendork!" shouted the Professor McGonagall of Elle's imagination. There was a collected gasp from the parents and guests assembled in the audience, and then the laughter started. Bravely as any Gryffindor, supercilious enough to please even her own Head of House, Professor Snape, Elle glided elegantly forward. Ah, well. At least, as a prefect, she would be one of the first to receive her Magical Arts Degree. First the Head Boy (Freddie-Mack Perks, a truly horrendous, rude, and irritatingly superior Gryffindor cousin of hers), then the Head Girl (also a Gryffindor—favoritism much?—Vicky Frobisher, that smug Charms genius), then the remaining prefects alphabetically: Hildebrandt Bradley of Ravenclaw, Annie French of Hufflepuff, then Leo, then herself (and then Aurora Shapiro, Ravenclaw, and David Stebbins, Hufflepuff—for the sake of completeness). That meant that Elle would be the sixth person to receive her degree. After that, she thought generously, everyone else might have as much 'fun' with the ceremony that they wished. Oh, if only Freddie-Mack weren't graduating this year, too! Dutiful the Perks might be, but they would never have come to the ceremony for Elle alone.

"…so we'll have to do something," Leo was saying. Elle sat up to let him know that, whatever she had been doing a minute ago, she was listening now, and resolutely banished thoughts of her difficult family situation. Leo gave her a wry look, but continued, "We need a plan."

"A plan…for the Leave-Taking Ceremony?" Elle asked, voicing her own fears.

"No," said Leo patiently. "I mean, a _plan_. Let's face it, neither Dumbledore's Army nor the Order of the Phoenix knows what it's doing."

"What, you don't think they have a plan?" asked Elle. The Dark Lord. That was what Leo meant. A plan for what to do about the Dark Lord. She had a sinking feeling.

"They're Gryffindors, Elle," Leo scoffed. "Of course they don't have a plan."

"Well," said Elle slowly, determined to give Gryffindors their due, "not a _proper_ plan, no, probably not. But I'm sure Professor Dumbledore has an idea, at least."

Leo abandoned the _Daily Prophet_ and looked across into Elle's eyes. Momentarily, he was distracted by their pale blue brilliance (a bit at odds with her long black hair), but then he focused, conveying all the extraneous details mentally, and only voicing the briefest outline of what he knew: "Harry Potter. Prophecy. Chosen One."

"That's _it_?" exclaimed Elle. "_That's_ their plan? How do you know that's all they've got?"

"My mother has been staying at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix for several months. That's it," Leo said confidently. Honestly, he was disgusted by the Light side's lack of organizational skill. Furthermore, he doubted they had intended to reveal everything they discussed to his mother, but she was determined and on the whole, Leo thought their defenses must have been lax. For Salazar Slytherin's sake, did they think their organization safe from enemy infiltration? His mother, neutral to their struggle, and a free agent, had heard every word of their most secret meetings. An enemy spy would have had a laughably simple time cataloguing not only their plans, but their hopes, fears, strengths and weaknesses—more fools they, to wear their hearts on their sleeves. Although Leo had come to know and respect a few Gryffindors (notably Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, and to a lesser extent the Weasley twins), he would never understand how the majority of them could be so naïve.

"So they're depending on a fifteen-year-old to rescue them from the forces of darkness," mused Elle incredulously.

Leo sighed. She was right—it was ridiculous. And how odd of the Dark Lord to choose an infant nemesis, anyway._ He_ was at least sixty. Really, it like robbing the cradle—or something with less romantic undertones. Then again, the Dark Lord was _evil_, after all.

"And you want _us_ to come up with a plan to defeat the greatest Dark wizard in the history of ever (according to experts)? I suppose you're expecting us to carry it out as well?"

Leo looked at Elle. Elle looked at Leo. She raised her eyebrows. He gave in and said it. "Well. Yeah."

For a moment she glared at him, enjoying his absolute confidence in their ability to create and carry out a plot to bring down _the Dark Lord_.

"Okay," said Elle, with an abrupt but completely sincere change of front. Leo beamed at her. She really was the best friend a bloke could have. "Where shall we start?"


	23. Safety First?

**Safety First?**

"We have to get out of here!" exclaimed Leea Lestrange urgently. She paced the narrow room in agitation. "We'll go back to France—no, your father will look for us there. How about Italy? I'm sure you'll love Rome—"

"Mother," interrupted Leo Lestrange. "I'm not leaving the country."

"What do you mean, darling?" demanded his mother. For such a diminutive person, Leea Lestrange had quite a commanding presence.

"I mean, I'm not leaving. I'm not going to run away from this fight."

"You're too young to know what you're talking about!" said Leea rather shrilly. "When I was your age, it was just the same—I had no thought for my own safety. My son, we must leave before the war starts!"

"The war's already started, Mother," Leo pointed out. "Ever since Voldemort—"

"The Dark Lord!" corrected Leea swiftly.

Leo rolled his eyes, but acquiesced to the change. Prudence, he knew, dictated that he speak of the Dark Lord with respect. At the moment, of course, he and his mother were perfectly safe. The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix left much to be desired—particularly in the matter of cleanliness—but the building was quite secure from Death Eater attack. Leo's mother was an adept at spells of concealment, and Leo doubted anyone (much less the brave, but foolish, members of the Order of the Phoenix) could approach them now without instantly revealing their presence.

Still, such comparable safety could not last forever. Leo had already been at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place for five weeks, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it. The Weasleys had left before the end of term, and all outward signs of the Order had gone with them (something to do with property ownership). Apparently, Dumbledore and the rest of the Order believed Leo's Aunt Bellatrix might arrive any day to take possession. Personally, Leo rather doubted it. And although it would not suit his plans if Bellatrix were to find him here, he had faith in his ability to concoct a reasonable explanation before she cursed him.

Leea did not share his optimism concerning Bellatrix and reason, but she had no real wish to avoid a confrontation with her sister-in-law. If it came to a duel, she knew herself to be the more subtle. Bellatrix relied far too much upon grand gestures.

"Ever since the Dark Lord revealed himself to the public by waltzing into the Ministry of Magic—incidentally, since he did that anyway, he really should have just walked in and grabbed the Prophecy himself months ago—there have been more disappearances, more deaths. I have to help stop this."

"Why?" asked Leea. "Why do you insist on staying here? There's nothing you can do—already the Dark Lord's strength has grown, the Order has fled—"

"So do you think they'll lose?" asked Leo casually.

Leea was not deceived. She studied her son, her lips pursed. "I don't know," she said finally. "But even if they don't lose, can you really tell me you won't mind hiding in this dilapidated excuse for a town house? Or wherever they decide to hold meetings next—though it'll be hard to beat Black blood wards for protection, I expect. Not to mention the fact that, no matter what you do for them, they will never trust a Slytherin."

Leo looked at her shrewdly. "Don't be ridiculous, Mother. You've had them eating out of the palm of your hand for months."

"Nonsense. If I had, I would never have permitted that disaster in the Department of Mysteries."

Leo, noting the extra-sharp tone in her voice, frowned. "You cared for Sirius Black," he said slowly.

Leea didn't meet his eyes. This was, of course, tantamount to a confession. Leo felt conflicted. On the one hand, he was uncomfortable at the thought of his mother…caring for a man who wasn't his father. On the other hand, his father had been imprisoned for fourteen years for crimes he had definitely committed. And now he was in prison again, although neither Leo nor Leea was naïve enough to think that would last long. And, back on the first hand again, Leo now felt doubly angry at Sirius Black's death—it had not only brought Harry Potter pain, but his mother as well.

"So you're determined, then?" Leea asked wistfully. She was thinking of all her beautiful escape plans, going up in smoke.

Leo smiled. "You raised me to look out for myself: this war will hurt us all. Not to mention the inevitable moment when I meet Father again. I'm thinking long-term survival, here." He gave her the most Slytherin possible explanation of his conduct, but the truth was he knew he couldn't abandon the DA (much less Elle) to the Death Eaters. Nonetheless, he was far from believing Harry Potter, the Chosen One, to be the only hope for defeating the Dark Lord. It was going to take some ingenuity…and a whole lot of luck…

"Then," Leea said, expression unreadable, "I'm proud of you, Leo, my son."


End file.
